


It's All A Lie

by katnissdoesnotfollowback (lost_on_cloud_9)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Character Death, Execution, Gen, Police Brutality, Racism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-18 20:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 51,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7329925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_on_cloud_9/pseuds/katnissdoesnotfollowback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unrest in District Twelve drives the Everdeen family to make choices they'd once thought would be impossible. Panem AU with no Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Spring 2016 Everlark Fic Exchange on tumblr, based on PROMPT 36: I was watching the movie '71 and I got this everlark prompt idea where it's panem but without the games and there is a rebellion starting in d12 and peeta takes part in it but during a street riot he gets injured and katniss and her dad find him and take him in and take care of him for a while and hide him from authorities looking for rebels. -Submitted by Anonymous
> 
> DISCLAIMER: First things first, this story is only very loosely inspired by the film ‘71, a UK made film set in 1971 Belfast, Northern Ireland, and the tumultuous times commonly referred to as The Troubles (an apt name if ever there was one. Yikes). If you haven’t seen the film, I highly recommend it, although if you are not familiar with the history, I also suggest brushing up on it before you watch since the film takes the approach that the viewer knows what several acronyms stand for and what the motivations are for all three sides (yes, three) of the conflict. So if you don’t know that, you’ll get lost in the first twenty minutes. And it’s really intense and violent. Like several children die graphic deaths in it kind of violent. Oh wait, I’m talking to THG fandom... Anyhow, you’ve been warned.
> 
> Now for the standard disclaimer, I am not Suzanne Collins nor am I affiliated with Lionsgate, Warp Films, or Creative Scotland. In fact, I’m not affiliated with any movie production or book publishing companies on any continent. Which means I have no claim to these characters or their story lines and gain absolutely nothing out of writing this other than the joy of destroying your hearts. 
> 
> WARNINGS: Rated Teen and up for depictions of violence and executions, equivalence to racism and police brutality, character and child deaths.
> 
> My everlasting thanks to titaniasfics for your fabulous editing skills.
> 
> You asked for it, Anon. Hugs and I hope you enjoy, whoever you are! -katnissdoesnotfollowback

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It’s the fire that finally tears me from my dreams. Bending and dancing unnaturally. Alive and  reaching out for my father. For my mother and my sister. For me. My body jolts with the force of my waking, and it takes me a moment to catch my breath, to orient myself in my home.

 

The bed is warm, inviting me to return to sleep, to forget responsibilities. My father still snores softly in his bed, although the faint light filtering through our dust-covered windows suggests that it is past time for me to rise. Slipping from my covers, I hiss at the cold floor beneath my feet and dive back into the warm blankets to search for my woolen socks, which must have come off as I slept. The delay gives me time to check the clock on our mantle, which is really just a board nailed to the wall where we have a few pictures and trinkets displayed. My parents’ wedding portrait. The most recent school pictures of me and my sister, Primrose. A vase for fresh flowers, empty for now in the last cold weeks of winter before the weather turns warm.

 

The clock claims it’s just past midnight. Confused, I shiver, thinking of the fire in my dreams. I remind myself that it wasn’t real and the glow outside cannot be from imagined fire. Still, I am cautious as I creep to the window, bypassing my father’s bed.

 

I can't see much through the coal dust coating the outside of the pane. It's a constant problem here in the Seam, the layers of the black stuff which always seems to accumulate over everything. My father hates it. And although Prim and I pitch in to help him keep our home as clean as possible, there is nothing we can do about the coal dust that settles outside, gathers too quickly for us to keep up with it, although we do scrub our windows at least once a month.

 

Unable to see through the window, I make my way to the front door of our house and step outside, just for a moment, shutting the door behind me to keep in the little warmth our pot-bellied stove provides.

 

The sky glows orange over the square, a few dozen blocks distant from our home, and a humming noise fills the air. A hundred angry bees, or perhaps people. There's a gunshot and then a scream. A dull roar of collective voices in anger or anguish.

 

Heart pounding, I return inside and crawl back in bed. My father used to speak of things like this and nights like these. Protests. Riots. I've never known one to occur in my lifetime, though. I lay there, motionless, listening for more noises that might tell me what is going on in the heart of our District. My feet itch to return to the door, but my head reminds me that it would be dangerous and futile. All I hear is the thumping of my blood in my ears and the stalwart breathing of the only two people in this world who I am certain that I love. For their sake, I dare not brave the streets again until morning.

 

What could anyone in District 12 hope to change by protesting in the streets?

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

I keep my head down as I walk beside my father into town, our game bags loaded from an especially good haul. My eyes long to look skyward, to enjoy the brilliant blue above us. We’ve already spent most of the day beneath its glorious expanse, and I let myself get distracted by its beauty more than once. Still, I would rather look up than down.

 

But that’s not a good idea here. Our boots scrape quietly on the stones of the town streets. We make our way behind the shops that ring the square. We’re not welcome up front. Despite the fact that my father has been trading with them since he was a teenager, and I joined him ten years ago, Merchants still look on us with suspicion and distrust. They will buy our meat and wild grown produce, but they will never really look us in the eyes.

 

Stopping at the first store, the butcher’s, I scan the back alleyways for Peacekeepers while my father knocks. Not that Peacekeepers are any great threat. Most of them are as starved for fresh meat as the rest of us. Some of them are our best customers. There’s always a chance, though, that a new arrival or a Peacekeeper facing a promotion might actually take the laws against poaching seriously. Then we’d both be in trouble, and probably take my little sister along with us.

 

Rooba, the butcher, cracks the door and peers out at us.

 

“Morning, Rooba,” my father greets her solemnly and opens his bag to pull forth the four turkeys we shot.

 

“Not interested today,” she says before he’s even got his hand wrapped around their bound legs.

 

“I’ve got four plump turkeys in here,” my father tries to explain, but Rooba shakes her head.

 

“You’ve not been about town since early this morning, have you?”

 

My father stiffens and my eyes dart between the two of them. We usually head out well before dawn, when it’s easy to slip out of the District unnoticed, in between Peacekeeper patrols. Although, we don’t broadcast that information. It’d be stupid to hand out specifics that would give the Peacekeepers an easy time to catch us in the act of committing a crime.

 

“I like you, Sage,” Rooba says. “You’re a great supplier and a good father, but don’t come to my door again, alright?”

 

With that, Rooba shuts the door in our faces. My father turns and strides to the next door. I follow, questions burning on my tongue. All day, I wanted to tell my father about what I saw last night, to ask him all these pressing questions, but whenever a quiet moment presented itself, the words seemed to stick in my throat. I wondered if it was something that would anger my father.

 

We have no luck at the grocer’s either. Or the cobbler’s, both families that are usually more than willing to purchase meat from us. My father doesn’t even try the sweet shop or the bakery, two more of our regular trades, instead turning silently toward the Seam after Mrs. Cartwright apologizes profusely and informs us she can’t buy one of our rabbits today.

 

For a moment, I watch him limping away, confused. When I finally realize he’s not going to wait for me or explain, I hurry to catch up, falling in step with him. We take slow, measured steps back towards the Seam, avoiding the square itself or the main roads. My mind churns so that I barely notice our direction until my father ducks his head and leads me through the low door to the Hob.

 

It’s unusually quiet, although we do manage to unload two of the turkeys to Greasy Sae and one of the rabbits in exchange for some thread, and the twine and paraffin wax that we need to make candles. Unfortunately, as I stand counting our meager coin and glancing at our still mostly full game bags, I know that we won’t be able to afford the new shoes that Prim needs. Hers are worn through, handed down from me. The shoes weren’t even brand new when I wore them, but purchased second or maybe even third hand in the Hob.

 

I watch from a distance as my father tries to bargain with Ripper. We usually don’t trade with her, since she sells contraband liquor, something we have no need for, but if she’s got coins from a sale of her own, it might be worth it. Eventually, my father manages to unload another rabbit in exchange for some money.

 

“Here,” he says as he returns to me and drops the money in my palm.

 

“What now, Papa?” I ask quietly. His forehead furrows and he turns towards the door.

 

“Home, Katniss. We go home now. There’s not much else we can do,” he says. I walk a few steps behind him, sudden anger bubbling in my veins.

 

I don’t understand why he’s not trying harder. He could be having one of his bad days. Ever since Mama died two years ago, my father hasn’t been quite the same. He still gets up and works his shifts in the mines. Still joins me in the woods on his days off. But he’s not the same. He used to laugh and sing, pull my sister and me into warm, unexpected embraces.

 

Maybe it started with the mining accident.

 

When I was twelve, my father would take me into the woods early. Before dawn. Before the Peacekeepers were out on patrols. Long before the whistles at the mines blew, shrill and lingering, to call the miners to work. He taught me to hunt, and to find the beauty in our world which seems to hold so little sometimes. I learned far more valuable lessons in the woods with my father than the District school could ever hope to impart to me.

 

In January that year, when I was looking forward to my thirteenth birthday in just four months, there was an explosion at the mines. I remember the alarms sounding, and how we were released early from school that day. I found Prim, waiting for me in the school yard, and as we walked towards the mines, I wondered where our mother was.

 

She was already there, aiding as much as she could as broken bodies were brought up in the lifts. Each time the lift clanged to a halt, though, she stopped and turned to watch. Prim and I were helpless, held back behind barriers the Peacekeepers erected, shivering in our threadbare coats, but I could see my mother. A healer. Her hands and her soft voice could work magic. That day, though, I could see her shoulders shaking with the effort of holding herself together as we waited.

 

Eventually, the number of miners being brought up each time grew fewer. Then, I heard my mother sob. She shoved a poultice into the hands of the man she’d been treating, ordering him to place it on his burns. She sprinted to a man I could barely recognize, held upright between two other miners, face twisted in agony, leg bent in two places, and flung her arms around him.

 

My father’s leg was broken, and he was one of the lucky ones. Dozens of miners were crushed, blown to bits, or trapped and suffocated to death. My mother set his bones right there, as Prim and I watched, crying and clinging to each other. Despite even my mother’s skill, though, my father’s leg never healed quite straight, leaving him with a limp. My mother said it was because one of the bones was shattered, not a clean break.

 

Once my mother had fashioned a splint for him, she turned to go back to work, but my father stopped her, grasping her hand and holding it briefly to his lips, a look of adoration shining from his eyes, even through the pain.

 

They were often like that, my parents. Anyone who looked at them could see how in love they were, how they lit up, fireflies in darkness, whenever the other was near. When she died two years ago of a fever that she caught from a family she was treating, the laughter and the light left my father’s eyes.

 

I examine his hunched shoulders as we work our way towards our house in the Seam and feel my own shoulders sagging under the weight of our failure today. It started out so promising, but now I wonder what we will do with two turkeys and all the rest.

 

“We’ll salt the meat tonight and try to sell it tomorrow or it’ll have to feed us,” my father says once we’re inside our home. “Where’s Prim?”

 

“Maybe out back with Lady,” I say as I scan the two rooms of our home for her. She’s not there. I glance out the window, hoping to see her on the dusty streets of the Seam, making her way home for the night, but there’s no sign of her. “I’ll go see if I can find her.”

 

“Katniss--” my father begins, but I don’t let him finish. I need air to think, and won’t find it in that shack where my mother’s ghost keeps my father distant. Besides, I can cover more ground than my father can with his leg.

 

My eyes sweep the streets of the Seam, searching for the blonde braid swinging over a brown coat. Prim stands out in the Seam, much like my mother did, since they both carry the fair skin and light hair coloring of people from town. Most people from the Seam look like me and my father. Straight black hair, dark olive skin, and gray eyes.

 

Once, I asked my father why people from town seemed to hate the Seam. He said it was because they thought we were a threat, that they didn’t really know any better since the Capitol made sure they continued to feel that way. I’ve never really understood his words, only knew it meant that I couldn’t fully trust any Merchants. I suppose I can’t blame them too much. Unlike us peasants in the Seam, most Merchant families can at least afford three decent meals a day, whereas in the Seam, sometimes we don’t know where our next meal is coming from. Maybe, if I had a full belly all the time, I wouldn’t question the words of the Capitol either.

 

My mother told me one night that I needed to slow down, that I ate like I’d never see food again. I told her that if Papa and I didn’t hunt, I might not. It was cruel and I was angry at her over something stupid. She wanted me to wear my hair differently for school pictures that year or something and I didn’t much care for the way she suggested it. What did it matter? The pictures were for the Capitol to keep track of us more than anything else. Sure, they sent home one printed picture with each kid, but we all know what those pictures are really about. They get filed away somewhere next to a sample of our blood, which they periodically use to check up on us, make sure we haven’t bolted for the woods. They claim that accountability is safety.

 

District Twelve, where you are certain to never get lost and can starve to death in safety.

 

Anyway, she died a few weeks after my moment of sass, without me ever really getting to mend that rift. When she died, my father packed away her things. There were moments when I thought we should sell them. My mother would rather we sell her precious dresses and her porcelain tea set she brought with her from town than see us starve to death, at least I think she would. It’s not that my father was neglectful or anything, but without the added income from my mother’s work as a healer and my father slowed down by his leg, there were a few months I thought we weren’t going to survive.

 

My father refused to part with anything my mother once held dear. The pretty blue and lavender dresses remain wrapped in some sort of delicate paper in a trunk under my father’s bed. The tea set stayed in our kitchen cabinet. Every so often, Prim will pull it out and serve tea with goat cheese spread on slices of warm bread.

 

There’s no sign of Prim. I’ve almost reached the edges of the Merchant quarters when a voice calls out to me.

 

“Hey. Catnip.”

 

I halt and turn to face the only person I call a friend. Gale Hawthorne.

 

“It’s getting close to curfew,” he says. “Shouldn’t you be at home?”

 

“It’s nowhere near curfew yet,” I say with a scowl. “Have you seen Prim around?”

 

“Yeah, she’s over at the Williams’ place. And it is close to curfew. Guess you and you father were a little too busy today to get the news.”

 

With a quick glance down the street towards the Williams’ home, I turn my attention to Gale. At least I now know where Prim is. Getting her home won’t take as much work with a starting point. Besides, his words have caught my interest. Even in the woods you have to be careful what you say. There’s no telling who might be listening. So inside the District, we often have to talk around what we really mean. Gale knows exactly where my father and I were this morning. He used to come out to the woods with us, and my father taught Gale as much as he could.

 

Gale’s father died in the mining accident that left my father with a twisted leg. Sometimes, I think he resents my father for living. I suppose I can’t blame him. If our positions were reversed, I might have resented Mr. Hawthorne. Still, my father tried as best he could, but Gale often spent our time in the woods raging against the unfairness of the Capitol and the way the Merchants had it far easier than us. My father once told Gale that it was to their advantage to divide us this way. Grudgingly, Gale had admitted to me once that my father was probably right about that part. It didn’t stop him from scowling or from muttering backhanded insults every time we tried to trade with Merchants.

 

Eventually, his surliness caused a rift. One day, Gale stopped coming into the woods with us. I know he still hunts and traps. On mornings when it’s just me in the woods, when my father has already left for work in the mines but I have time to hunt before school starts, sometimes Gale and I work together. My father taught him a little about traps and snares, but Gale somehow took my father’s teachings to new levels. He has a gift with snares.

 

It hurt that neither of them explained to me what happened between them, but every time I brought it up, my father would say that Gale’s rants were scaring off the game, so he would probably do better on his own. Gale would say that he preferred the solitude. I know there’s more they’re not telling me, but I can’t argue with their reasons either. Still, Gale is my friend.

 

“What news?” I ask, trying to hide my impatience to get Prim and go home. Between Gale’s words, what I saw last night, and the behavior of the Merchants this morning, it’s clear my father and I missed something important.

 

“New curfew, new regulations,” Gale says. “You should get Prim and head home.”

 

I chafe under his advice, feeling as though he is purposely excluding me from something big, and jump when a hand lands on my shoulder.

 

“Mr. Everdeen,” Gale says tightly. “Figured with two pretty daughters, you’d be more wary about new regulations.”

 

“Katniss,” my father says. “Go get Prim.”

 

“Papa, she’s--”

 

“Go get her,” he repeats and stands watching Gale warily.

 

“Alright,” I mutter and walk slowly off towards the Williams’ home.

 

“I told you to leave Katniss out of this,” my father says, confirming my suspicions. My brow furrows and my palms sweat. I never thought my father would treat me like a child, and the worst part is, I don’t even know what he’s keeping from me. Since I have to fetch Prim, though, I don’t hear Gale’s response.

 

At the Williams’ home, just a few doors down from Gale’s, I knock, and wait only a few seconds before it opens.

 

“Oh, hello, Katniss,” Mr. Williams says, a kitchen knife clutched in his fist. “Good to see you. Prim’s almost done. Ah, if you want to come in, we can discuss her payment while she finishes.”

 

Finishes _what_? I want to ask, but I’m already pissed at my father for keeping me in the dark and now Prim appears to have a secret as well, so I nod and step inside the house, which is almost an exact mirror of ours. Two rooms. One for sitting and eating, another for sleeping and bathing. For them it would be a touch more crowded. They have three kids, although the oldest is twenty and will likely move out as soon as he finds someone to marry, be assigned his own house. Thom is the same age as Gale and works with him in the mines. Anyways, you don’t get a three room house unless you have four or more kids.

 

“Two spoonfuls if it becomes unbearable,” I hear Prim’s soft voice. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning and again after school to change the bandages, alright, Thom?”

 

My stomach drops. She’s been working as a healer.

 

“We used to pay your mother in tomatoes,” Mr. Williams states, his hands now weaponless. I wonder why he answered the door armed. “But, uh, seeing as how it’s not quite spring…”

 

“Whenever your crop comes in,” I say automatically, knowing that was how my mother operated. Besides, people in the Seam hate owing anyone anything, so I know Mr. Williams is good for it. My voice sounds harsh, and I can tell Mr. Williams doesn’t appear convinced. My mother and Prim have a much softer mein than I do, I know. I don’t smile much, and I know people find me cold. It’s safer that way. Keep your head down, hold your tongue, never let people see what you feel. It’s served me well in trading with Merchants, but it must come off as harsh to Seam folk, so I try to soften my tone.

 

“It’s not a problem.”

 

He smiles slightly and nods.

 

“Don’t know what we would’ve done without Primrose. She’s...well she’s got your mother’s touch.”

 

That’s what I’m afraid of, but I say nothing, instead try to smile at him. Prim steps out from the bedroom and stops short when she sees me.

 

“Katniss, I--”

 

“We better get home before curfew,” is all I say to her and she nods, slips her freshly washed hand into mine. We leave behind the cramped home, and I squeeze her hand, grateful that my father appears to still be caught in a heated talk with Gale. He’s got enough to worry about with whatever new rules the Capitol has imposed on us and the effect it seems to be having on our relations with the Merchants. I don’t want to burden him further. “We’re not telling Papa, but you have to be home on time from now on or he’s going to figure it out.”

 

“Yes,” Prim says. “Okay.”

 

“You were delivering goat cheese, understand?”

 

Prim nods in answer.

 

“I hope you’re okay being paid in tomatoes come summer,” I whisper right before we reach my father.

 

Prim nods again and even manages to smile as she lies to Papa. He nods curtly and leads us back home. I keep ahold of Prim, to let her know how close it was, and how angry with her I am. My father would never allow Prim to be a healer. Even though my mother taught Prim everything she knew, was training Prim to be a healer alongside her before she died, losing Mama to the fever changed my father’s views on the matter. Pride turned to fear, and Papa forbade Prim to heal on her own. Obviously, she’s been doing it anyways, behind our backs.

 

When we get home, we prepare and eat a silent supper, the air quivering in tension around us. It radiates off Papa’s shoulders, as I desperately try to hold off my questions. Finally, Prim fills us in with idle chatter about town. It’s fairly easy to decipher what she’s telling us.

 

The stocks in the square were unusually full today. The Peacekeepers tightened curfew in response to an increase in lawlessness. Coal quotas have been increased and rations reduced.

 

It seems foolish to me. Tighter measures such as these would only make people angrier, more likely to protest.  I wonder if Thom Williams participated in whatever happened last night. It would explain his injuries as well as his father’s jumpy behavior.

 

“Straight to school in the morning, girls. No reason to do anything that might shine badly on this family,” my father says as he chews on his fried squirrel.

 

“But Papa,” I start.

 

“No, Katniss. It’s late. Don’t argue with me on this. You can see your boyfriend some other time.”

 

Does he mean Gale? He can’t mean Gale. Gale’s not my boyfriend. My father must be talking in riddles to avoid mentioning our hunting.

 

I purse my lips as indignation simmers in me. The weather is starting to warm. The animals returning after the cold of winter. Plus I was thinking of scouring the woods for herbs for Prim, like we used to do for my mother. If she’s going to insist on being a healer, she should at least have easy access to the tools she’ll need. I don’t want to lose her to a fever like we did Mama, but Prim is fourteen, nearly fifteen. By that age, I was hunting on my own in the woods, and there’s nothing illegal about what Prim is doing. The Capitol won’t dispense lashes or time in the stocks to her for healing a few injured or sick.

 

That night, I fall asleep waiting for sounds of more protests. Life in Panem isn’t a bunch of roses. People starve almost every week, all while the Capitol claims to provide protection and nourishment for us. There were times I think Gale is right in his rage against them, although I don’t know what could be done about it. Still, I try to understand the people who would risk jail or execution to let the Capitol know they thought the government is wrong. Abhorrent.

 

It was basically decided from the moment I was born that I would work the mines once I hit the age of eighteen. That’s in just two short months. I’ll be granted the few weeks after my birthday, until the end of May to finish school, which is really a joke anyways, as most of our classes have to do with coal production. Merchants attend classes geared towards running a business and only a few of our classes overlap. Reading and writing, physical education, music.

 

I hate being underground. Every year, on our class trip to the mines, I would get sick, thinking of how close my father came to dying down there. I hate the dark and the cramped spaces, the awful smell. The suffocating dust that hangs in the air. For awhile, I thought that I could just make my living as a hunter. What great catches I could make if I had all day everyday to devote to the woods. But it wouldn’t work. The government keeps close tabs on us, to include our work schedules. They would know if I didn’t have a legal profession. So full-time hunting is out.

 

I don’t do well with battered, bleeding bodies. Ironic, given the fact that I can skin a rabbit or pluck a turkey without a problem. But it means that my mother didn’t even bother teaching me how to heal. I learned a few things in the moments before my stomach revolted and I had to flee the house for the meadow and fresh air, but not enough to be useful. And that means that I am left with mining. Which makes me want to throw a rock through a window. So I guess I can sort of understand the people who are protesting. That’s when it occurs to me that Gale might be one of them. He hates the mines as much as me, if not more. I hope he’s safe tonight, and strain my ears, fighting sleep to catch some sign of unrest.

 

Nothing happens.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

We’ve managed a pair of rabbits and one stringy squirrel. It won’t fetch much, so we quickly reset the snares and move to our line closer to the lake. Another rabbit. The silence between us is stifling, and I hate the fact that Gale still isn’t telling me why my father seems so badly to want to avoid him. Or what it is he’s not supposed to involve me in.

 

We take a break by a stream, splitting one of the drop biscuits made from ration grains that my father wrapped up before he left for the mines this morning. He meant it for a before-school breakfast, not a while hunting breakfast. I feel guilty sharing it with Gale, for being out here in the woods at all, but this is Gale’s day off, which means it’s our only chance this week to really talk. As upset with him as I am, I still don’t want to miss out on that.

 

“We could leave, you know,” Gale says as I toss a stone into the stream, watch it sink to the shallow depths and rest near a patch of water moss.

 

“And go where?” I ask.

 

“I dunno,” Gale mutters, wrists resting on his bent knees. “Maybe join the rebels.”

 

I scoff at the suggestion. It’s treason, and I glance around us to make sure we’ve not been followed. The rebels. Groups of vicious people living in the wilds between districts, intent on bringing down the Capitol by any means necessary.

 

Every so often, the Capitol catches one and has them dragged to the square of the nearest district and publicly executed, live on national TV. The event is treated as a holiday, a celebration of the power and stability of Panem. Schools close. The entire populace is expected to be present in their squares to witness the spectacle. They even go so far as to take attendance, pricking your finger and marking log books with your blood before scanning it to match your DNA to your identity. An absence means Peacekeepers will be visiting your home that evening to make sure that you’re either sick or dead. Two days in the stocks if you aren’t, plus the Peacekeepers are guaranteed to search your home for contraband.

 

“What would we do with our families?” I ask, knowing that at the first mandatory event we miss, our families would be jailed or maybe even executed. I don’t know. No one has left District 12 in the time I can remember. We’d have to take our entire families with us and somehow survive in the wilds. Eight people. Even if we did, the rebels tend towards violence. We might be killed on sight rather than welcomed with open arms.

 

“We could survive,” he says. “Even without the rebels. Your family and mine. We could do it.”

 

It’s crazy, although a part of me thinks it might be better than staying here.

 

“Then you’d miss out on marrying Penelope Summers,” I tell him with a serious face. He grins and shakes his head.

 

“You’re never letting me live that down, are you?” he asks, referring to the rumors that flew around school after he and Penelope, the daughter of one of the Ministers of Justice, were caught near the slag heap two months ago.

 

The details made me blush, but it’s not unheard of, especially for a boy like Gale. He’s handsome and strong. Strong enough to take the harsh conditions in the mines, plus he can hunt. All of that makes him highly desirable, Seam blood or not. I hear the girls whispering about him at school. They all want him and every last one of them shunned Penelope after the incident, mainly out of jealousy. Truthfully, I was a little jealous too. Not because I have designs on Gale, but because good hunting partners aren’t exactly thick on the ground here in Twelve. Few people have the gumption to do what we do, to brave the woods. There are a few courageous souls who cross the fence every autumn to pluck apples from the trees just beyond the fences, but otherwise, my father, Gale and I pretty much have the woods to ourselves. Except for the rebels.

 

“I’m never getting married,” I declare to the cool air. “Or having kids. It’s just not worth the handful of extra money.” It’s a gamble I don’t want to take.

 

“You say that now, Catnip,” Gale says with a strange gleam in his eyes. “But the right man could change your mind.”

 

The intensity behind his words disturbs me. Where did all this talk of marriage and children come from anyways? There’s nothing romantic between Gale and me. Never has been. I stand abruptly and brush the dirt from the seat of my pants.

 

“We should head back,” I say.

 

As we walk back towards the fence, Gale and I both grow tense. Despite the dangers of illegal hunting, which range from being caught to being attacked by wild dogs or worse, this next stage is truly the most dangerous. Trading. Especially now that our more lucrative trade partners have grown far more suspicious of us. I wonder what lies the Capitol told them to heighten their mistrust. Maybe Gale knows, but the last thing I want right now is to send him on a tangent.

 

Gale halts, then slowly lifts a finger, pointing out a gaggle of wild turkey to me. Quietly as possible, I draw an arrow and nock it, take aim and let fly, following rapidly with a second shot. By the time I’ve drawn a third arrow, the birds are scattered enough in panic to make chasing them pointless. Still, two wild turkeys added to our catch will make for decent trading. It’s been another good day, the animals finally venturing out to brave the reawakening world after the long winter.  We collect our catch and keep moving. We still have a lot of ground to cover to get me back inside the fence in time for school. Gale will probably return to the woods after we finish our morning trades.

 

As we move, chills run down my spine. Other than the woods being abnormally quiet, though, I can’t pinpoint a reason.

 

A shout echoes over the hills. Gale and I react as one, dropping into a thicket of brush and nocking arrows, pointed outward in self-defense. My heart thumps wildly in my chest. I want to ask Gale if he thinks it’s rebels or Peacekeepers come to arrest us, finally. He shakes his head slightly when I turn towards him, a signal to remain silent.

 

As we watch the woods, I see a flash of bright red. And then more shouting. It’s two people, running as though a fire trails behind them. Leaping over a fallen log, the one with black hair, a single streak of purple curling over his forehead looks up. A bird chirps and the boy yells at the red-haired girl.

 

“Run, Lav! Run!”

 

It happens so fast I nearly scream with the girl. Out of nowhere, a hovercraft appears, the belly emblazoned with the geometric eagle of the Capitol. A harpoon of some kind spears the boy through the middle and then he’s airborne. Up up up, until he disappears inside the hovercraft.

 

She’s still screaming, his name perhaps, her voice mangled with emotions as she trips and tries to run, falls to her face twenty yards from where Gale and I are hiding. Her eyes meet mine, a lovely shade of lavender. My mouth feels glued shut, and I’ve no idea what to do. She blinks and opens her mouth, reaches towards us, but then a metal claw grabs her, and lifts her up to the hovercraft as well. So fast, I blink and she’s gone.

 

The woods fall silent as the hovercraft once more disappears. We sit there, and I wonder if Gale’s heart is pounding as hard as mine. I can’t tell because my own pulse and this strange ringing is all I can hear. We wait there until the forest returns to life, which is far longer than is prudent, but my body is frozen, rigid with terror.

 

We’ll have to split up to accomplish our trades today. Thinking of mundane, everyday tasks helps me pull it together enough to take Gale’s hand when he stands and offers to help me from the thicket. We walk in total silence back to Twelve, never once mentioning what we witnessed, all talk of rebellion and anger towards the Capitol stifled for now.

 

I’m not even certain I manage decent trades, and trudge home, depositing the herbs I gathered for Prim on the kitchen table before setting to work skinning and preparing one of the rabbits to turn into stew. I forgot the greens I planned on gathering, and for some reason, this is the thought that makes me collapse at the table and bury my head in my folded arms, ignoring the stench of entrails on my hands.

 

My arms muffle the choked noises I make as I try to process what I witnessed. They had to be from the Capitol. The rebels live in the woods, removed from society. The clothes this pair wore, although tattered, looked expensive. Would rebels even have the kind of hair dye needed to produce the unnaturally colored tresses those two wore? No one in Twelve can afford to dye their hair like that, and I imagine the people of the other districts are the same. But why would they want to leave the Capitol? It’s no secret that our Merchant Class is well off, and even more so than them, the Capitolites are loaded with cash. I cannot fathom anyone wanting to leave a pampered life where you go to bed with a full stomach every day.

 

I don’t know, I don’t know. I only know that I should have done something. But what? Then I realize that’s the problem. Nothing I could have done would have changed their fate. This realization does nothing to assuage my guilt.

 

I’m shaking with it, trembling head to foot, when there’s a loud laugh outside the door. I jump to my feet, toppling my chair and gasping. I wipe my eyes, run to the window to check, certain that I finally pushed too far, certain they’ve come to arrest me.

 

Nothing.

 

I’m still watching the street when Prim comes in from her morning trades and healing rounds. In addition to her healing services, she sells Lady’s milk and cheeses at the Hob. I hope she’s stopped selling to Merchants, although she might have more luck with them, given her appearance.

 

Primrose inherited our mother’s fair merchant looks. I watch her now as she washes her hands, up past her elbows, and splashes cool water on her face. Focusing on her soothes away the terror, if only a small amount. She’s lovely and fresh as morning dew. My mother was beautiful as well, and even though the harsh reality of life in the Seam wore on her, leaving behind wrinkles and weathered hands, my mother’s beauty shone through whenever my father would smile at her or twirl her around the house for no reason other than to make her laugh.

 

“Rabbit stew tonight,” I say, and return to the stew, pushing away my memories of my mother and how my father was when she was still alive.

 

“Yum,” Prim says merrily as she joins me in the kitchen corner, eyes the stew and smiles before diving in to help.

 

“How is Mrs. Thompson?” I ask, hoping to distract her enough that she doesn’t notice my agitation.

 

“Fine,” Prim says brightly. “She’ll probably deliver soon.”

 

“You’ve been delivering babies?” I ask, a little astonished. My mother took Prim along on many of her house calls, to include deliveries, but it still stuns me. I knew she was seeing Mrs. Thompson to help her along with the pregnancy because she told me where she was headed this morning, but this is healing on a whole new scale.

 

“I --” Prim fumbles, her cheeks turning pink.

 

“Never mind,” I say. “But you should start thinking about how you’re going to explain this to Papa when people start knocking on our door for remedies or midwife services.”

 

“I’ve been working with the apothecary,” she whispers. More wonderful news. “He’s been teaching me a lot and his wife has helped me learn more about being a midwife. They understand that the Seam needs someone whose services they can actually afford.”

 

“And that’s you?” I ask testily. Prim sighs and shuts her eyes tightly.

 

“I’m doing what I can, Katniss. Just like you are. I’m good at this and it helps not just our family, but a lot of families. Please don’t make this about Mama,” she says. “Mama knew the risks and so do I. I’m doing everything I can to be safe.”

 

Where, I wonder, did the little girl who always wanted to braid my hair in intricate styles and sing to the birds in the meadow go? She’s grown up so fast.

 

“Besides,” Prim smiles at me, her eyes glinting in mischief and victory. “We both know you didn’t sneak out of here right after Papa left to meet up with Gale at the slag heap for some early morning canoodling.”

 

“Canoodling?” I say, my cheeks heating at the mere suggestion of me kissing Gale. I’m really not sure how I feel about it. Clearly thinking she’s won, Prim stirs the stew and crushes some dried seasonings to add.

 

“Fine,” I sigh. “I found you some herbs. They’re in the white sack on the table.”

 

Prim’s eyes widen and she hurries over to the table to examine what I managed to collect for her. She makes a soft sound of delight and then her arms wrap around me from behind.

 

“Thank you, Katniss!”

 

I smile and pat her arm awkwardly, glad I could make her happy. Still a little worried for her, but as she pointed out, I’m not exactly obeying our father either, nor am I engaged in a safe or even legal form of livelihood.

 

Once the ingredients are all added to the stew, we dampen the fire a little and leave it to simmer all day while we’re at school. We quickly change into our uniforms and head out into the cool morning air. It’s already warmed up a bit since I was out hunting with Gale. It’s a bit of a walk and we move briskly through the Seam and skirt the edges of the town square.

 

We pass the bakery on our way in, and I have to tug on Prim’s hand to keep her from wandering over to the front window and pressing her nose to the glass. I know what we’d find - expensive and lavishly decorated cakes that we could never afford, perfectly shaped loaves of mouthwateringly delicious breads. Every now and then, I trade with the baker for one of those loaves, and I have often dreamed of being able to afford one of the smaller cakes for Prim’s birthday.

 

“Not today, Prim,” I say, and she starts to protest, but glances over in time to spot the baker’s wife as she places another beautiful cake in the window. That woman is a sour tempered witch and most people try to avoid her, preferring to deal with the much quieter and mild mannered baker. Prim lowers her head.

 

“It’s okay, Little Duck,” I say as I tuck in the back of her shirt, which has come loose again. It’s an old school shirt of mine, worn and nearly threadbare, two sizes too large for Prim just yet. In the moment, I need to mother her a little, to forget that she’s almost grown. “Maybe this afternoon.”

 

“Quack,” she says with a sardonic twist of her lips, making me laugh the way only Prim can.

 

We arrive at the school just in time and separate. I join the other seventeen year old kids and she joins with the fourteen year olds, all of us in orderly lines by age, gradually falling silent in the moments before the bell rings, so that when the school doors finally open to admit us, the only sounds in the schoolyard are the scuffling of shoes and the intermittent cough. I try not to look at the source of the hacking or think of the potential for more income if the kid is Seam and their best bet is to visit Prim. Already I’m thinking of her skills in terms of our survival.

 

Our mother was the daughter of the apothecary, and learned the arts of healing under her parents. We don’t have doctors in District Twelve. Doctors are trained in a fancy school and live in the Capitol, and very few residents of District Twelve can afford a trip to the Capitol. Besides, you only go by invitation, and most of the illnesses and injuries in District Twelve require immediate attention. We can’t wait on an invitation and a two day train ride to the city. Instead we have healers, and my mother brought her trade with her when she left town. My father, and later me as well, would scavenge for medicinal herbs out in the woods. It’s a lot different than the neat rows in the apothecary’s garden behind his store, but since my mother charged far less than him, the people of the Seam could actually afford her services, leaving the much wealthier customers to the apothecary himself.

 

Eventually, the old apothecary died, leaving his business in the hands of his son, my mother’s brother, I suppose. I’ve never even spoken to the man, although it sounds as though he and his wife have taken Prim under their wing. On the one hand, I am grateful they are continuing my mother’s teachings since this is what Prim wants to do. At least it will keep her out of the mines once she reaches 18. I wonder if my father has thought of that. But then I also have to wonder about the apothecary’s motives. As far as I know, my mother’s entire family stopped speaking to her when she married my father, which is why I know nothing about that part of our family. So why would the apothecary change that now, when so many Merchants seem to be withdrawing from contact with the Seam?

 

It turns out to be a dull day at school. The only excitement comes in the form of an announcement. All citizens must report to the square at four this afternoon for a mandatory viewing. Other than that, it’s the same drivel about the glorious history of Panem, math lessons that are geared more towards Merchant children who will eventually run one of the many businesses in the square, and science lessons that are actually designed to prepare Seam children for a career in mining.

 

We don’t even get our usual hour of outdoor physical education since it starts raining shortly after lunch. Instead, we’re stuck in the gymnasium, with me dreaming of trees, puzzling over the apothecary, and ignoring the shouts of the other girls as I miss a block on a shot at our goal. As if I care about kicking around a stupid ball.

 

I receive a few dirty looks in the locker rooms as I change out of my P.E. uniform and back into my class uniform. I ignore those too, thinking ahead to how I might escape into the woods after the mandatory announcements, since it means my father will be home early. I may have to settle for an afternoon in the meadow, searching for greens, herbs, and if I’m lucky, dandelions.

 

Maybe, if I time it right, I can sneak Prim up to the bakery window after the family has left the shop for the square but before we’re required to be accounted for. The cakes in the bakery window are one of the few truly beautiful things in District Twelve, so I hate to deny Prim any chance to see them. They just make her so simplistically and wondrously happy.

 

When the bell finally rings, releasing us for the day, I wait along the side of the school yard for Prim. On the other side of Twelve, miners are rising up from the depths of the earth on rickety old lifts. The Capitol has timed the announcements to coincide with the shift change, so all mine workers will be present, the day workers released early and the swing shift workers allowed a delay in reporting to work for the mandatory attendance.

 

I spot Gale across the yard, waiting for his siblings, and we share a nod, but we don’t really spend time together outside of our hunting and trading. There’s just no time, although he seems to find time for other girls just fine. I watch as another Seam girl, an eighteen year old whose name I can’t remember smiles up at him. Ugh. I don’t get the appeal of flirting like that. Maybe because I’ve never tried it. Maybe because no boys have looked at me the way Gale looks at that girl. Whatever. I’m never getting married anyways, so it’s better for all of them to just leave me alone.

 

“Did you have a good morning?” Prim asks as she slips her hand in mine. “I didn’t get to ask you since we were running a little behind.”

 

I nod and tell her it was a good morning, not wanting to scare her with the story of the red-haired girl and her companion. Besides, that’s a story I have to keep to myself inside the district. I switch to asking her about school, a much safer topic. From an early age, I learned to hold my tongue, keep my head down and not attract too much attention. I was already walking a thin line with the hunting. If I talked the way Gale does about the Capitol, Prim might pick up on it and repeat things I said. Then where would our family be? In jail. Or dead.

 

Keeping our pace deliberately slow, we gradually fall back a few paces behind the crowd of people headed to the square. By the time we reach the bakery, the windows are dark, indicating that the family has already left for the announcements. I let go of Prim’s hand and let her stare longingly at the cakes.

 

“Oh, look, Katniss. This one has daisies on it. Aren’t they beautiful?” she breathes, her warm breath fogging the glass so that she has to shift to the right and view a different cake.

 

“They’re lovely,” I say, admiring the crown of ivy on a four tier confection of pure excess.

 

I can’t imagine having enough money to buy something like that, although I suppose if Gale marries Penelope, he’ll have a wedding cake like that. He’s supposed to take his second and final round of aptitude tests this summer, to determine if he’s been appropriately placed in his career. Most Seam folk are classified and then remain miners all of their life. But Gale is smart. Maybe he could even get the chance to go to the Capitol to study engineering. He has a knack for things like that. Our snares are mostly his design. But again, a future like that is only possible by invitation. Gale could come back as a mining foreman, though. Or be sent to another district. Our teachers are like that. Trained in the Capitol and then sent to another district to educate the rest of us.

 

It’s more money than miners make, and if I had any talent beyond shooting things, maybe I could go, too. Bring in scads more money and security for my family. Maybe then my father wouldn’t have to work the mines anymore, although I know it’d rub him raw to place all of that on my shoulders. It’s a dream I can’t afford, though, because it probably won’t happen. I grab Prim’s hand again, tug her away from the window to join the lines checking in to the square.

 

We check in, and I suck on my finger to deal with the sting of the needle before we find our father and join him. I like the square. The shops are a bit run down, but there’s something almost quaint and inviting about their architecture. Most of the Merchants live in the apartments above their shops. The upper windows are picturesque with their lace curtains and window boxes that bloom colorful flowers in the spring through summer. A few even swap out the summer blooms for autumn marigolds to keep the cheerful touch of color. On market days, when the trains from the Capitol and other districts arrive with fresh supplies and goods, and holidays like New Years, the square has an almost jolly and carefree attitude to it.

 

Except for the Hall of Justice. It’s a dark, imposing building that handles most legal transactions. Everything from weddings to floggings and the occasional hanging. The Peacekeeper barracks are behind it along with a smattering of houses for the commanders and their families. Gale has been in there before, after his father died and there was paperwork to be filed. Burial deeds. Widow’s benefits for Hazelle. Changing her status to Head of Household, responsible for accepting the family’s rations and other legal matters. Making Gale the beneficiary of the death benefits should Hazelle die before he turned eighteen.

 

I glance around and notice a few Peacekeepers with gold ribbons stitched down the sides of each leg of their pants. I’ve never seen Peacekeepers in uniforms like those, and there appear to be more of them than usual. I study their faces, searching for a familiar one, and at first, find no one that I know. Eventually, I spot Darius, adjusting some kind of projector while a Peacekeeper with gold stripes barks orders at him.

 

I like Darius. As far as Peacekeepers go, he’s not bad at all. Usually good for a laugh, and he hangs around Greasy Sae’s stall in the Hob quite a bit. He once joked with me that I should trade one of my rabbits to him for a kiss.

 

Turning away from Darius, I find a few more that I know, and note that none of them are wearing the gold stripes. It doesn’t bode well at all.

 

Static crackles and the screens flanking the Hall of Justice flare to life. The people of Twelve fall silent and wait for the news.

 

“Good evening, citizens of fair Panem,” a voice intones. “Your quick assembly is appreciated.”

 

I try not to snort in front of Prim and the rest of the district. As if we had any choice.

 

“And now,” the voice continues as the picture finally focuses. The Great Seal of Panem, a geometric eagle with the most ridiculously unrealistic and angular feathers for spread wings, arrows clutched in one claw, an olive branch in the other. Rays of the sun radiating out from behind the bird. “A word from our exalted President, Coriolanus Snow.”

 

The seal fades to reveal President Snow, sedately seated behind his massive desk. I assume it’s massive. It certainly looks that way over video. He smiles at us, an expression that is no doubt meant to be comforting, benevolent. It comes off as creepy.

 

“My dear countrymen and women,” the president begins, his voice magnified and echoing through the town. “Tonight, I must bring you unfortunate news.”

 

A murmur travels through the crowd, but it has no chance to grow as President Snow continues speaking, unaware of the effect of his words. Or maybe he is, because he shakes his head, like a disappointed father.

 

“Ours is a delicate nation, still struggling to overcome the terrible situations our ancestors left us to deal with. Each of us plays a role in the system that keeps us from deteriorating into the barbaric state of years long past. Recent events, however, have forced the hand of the Capitol. In order to remind you, the people of the districts, of the benevolent and caring aims of the Capitol, in accordance with the recommendations of your district representatives, the following measures must be taken to maintain the good order and peace we have enjoyed under the rule of the Capitol.”

 

Easy for him to say; he’s running the show. I hold my tongue, though. Keep my face impassive that no one can read my thoughts and feelings.

 

“First,” President Snow lifts a piece of parchment and reads. “To counteract recent disruptions in certain districts, output quotas have been increased ten percent across the board.”

 

This gets the Seam families to grumble a little and look around in disbelief. My hands begin to shake and several of the Peacekeepers ringing the square shift to grip their rifles more securely, as though they were anticipating trouble tonight, and this grumbling is the first sign.

 

“Second,” an oblivious Snow continues. “Several squabbles amongst the representatives have shown a complete disregard for the needs of the nation over the needs of the individual districts. Therefore, in an attempt to streamline the bureaucratic processes that a governing body must engage in, the Capitol has moved to disband the current representative body and replace it with one consisting of one representative per district. The Mayor of each district will provide said representation for his people.”

 

As one, heads turn towards Mayor Undersee, seated on a dais next to several officials from the Hall of Justice. He bows his head, a gesture of contrition, or acceptance. The Ministers of Justice nod in agreement and applaud. I suppose we are meant to join in, but no one dares. It’s not like our representatives do much good anyways, but at least they existed, usually voted from amongst the Merchants. Now, Snow has made it clear. The Mayor is selected by the Capitol from amongst the Ministers of Justice, most of whom hail from the Capitol originally. We don’t get a voice anymore.

 

Perhaps it won’t be too bad, though. Mayor Undersee seems to be a reasonable man. He married a girl from Twelve, after all. Her twin sister runs the sweet shop in town, and the Mayor’s daughter, Madge, is kind. She’s sort of my friend, I suppose. We usually eat lunch together, although we rarely ever talk.

 

“Third,” President Snow announces. “In light of current difficulties, the Marriage Incentive is to be reduced forty percent. Fourth, Working Class Citizens must complete and pass a test in addition to their aptitudes upon completion of their school years. This test is designed to ensure that only the best and brightest of our citizens are allowed to vote on future matters. Restricting voting privileges thusly will aid in ensuring the continued growth and prosperity of this great nation as well as its security. All current Working Class Citizens who have completed school and already moved on to their career appointments will be asked to submit to the testing as well. Specific dates and times will be delivered by the Ministers of Justice.

 

“I must remind you, in these trying times, that all measures enacted by the Capitol are done so for the safety and prosperity of all. I ask your full cooperation in maintaining the security and peace of this nation.”

 

I can’t help it, my jaw drops open. Beside me, my father’s spine stiffens and he makes a strange noise in his throat. My mind reels with the information. The president frames it as taking care of us, securing our future, but I wonder. If we’re no longer full-fledged citizens with a stake in our future, what are we then?

 

But President Snow isn’t done. He carefully places the paper on his desk and smooths the surface.

 

“Now I must address a most serious issue. Our Peacekeeper squads work tirelessly to maintain good order amongst our districts. Their vigilance has recently yielded much to be concerned about.”

 

The screen flickers and although the President’s voice continues, sounds from another location join in. Howling wind that I can see whipping the clothing and hair of the people standing in a square, much like ours. A computer generated graphic flashes up on screen and stays in the corner.

 

**District 11.**

 

The people of Eleven are eerily quiet and still as five people are dragged onto the stage set up in front of their Hall of Justice. Three men, one woman, and a child. They’re bound, hands behind their back, one of the men walks with a severe limp. All of their faces are hidden beneath burlap hoods.

 

“A squad of Peacekeepers, in accordance with Search and Discover Act 24.12.8,” the president announces as the five people are led to the nooses hanging from the gallows on the stage, “Discovered a pair of men sheltering in the home of a Working Class Family of District 11. Such actions, aiding and abetting treasonous rebels, is expressly forbidden, and punishable by death. These men, the rebels, are dangerous to the security of all people of our nation.”

 

The President’s voice has shifted from one of a lecturing parent to something much more sinister as the nooses are placed around their necks and tightened.

 

“They will murder and steal, undermine all that we have worked together to achieve. Let this night stand as a reminder that such treason cannot and will not be tolerated. For the sake of the Capitol, the Districts, the people of Panem, the very foundations of our lives, I sentence these five persons to immediate death.”

 

At his final words, a Peacekeeper pulls a lever, opening the hatches beneath the feet of the doomed people. They drop and the child wriggles a moment. A woman in the crowd screams. Someone else sobs, but the sounds are quickly hushed. I can’t tell if the commotion occurred here in District Twelve, or far away in District Eleven.

 

The wind buffets the woman’s body, knocking it into the child beside her, sending his legs thumping against the beams supporting the stage. The screen returns to the President, a hard look now twisting his features. Prim hides her face in my father’s chest. My father grasps my hand and squeezes tight.

 

“I expect and appreciate your continued patriotism and cooperation. Good evening from the Capitol.”

 

His speech ended, the screen displays the seal once more as the anthem blares through the speakers, making half of the people around me flinch at the first brassy note. His message could not be more clear. Submit to the new restrictions, or suffer.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Chaos erupts almost as soon as the screens go black. Shouts ring the square. A Peacekeeper lifts his pistol and fires into the air.

 

“Shut up, Seam trash!” A lone voice rises above the crowd, accompanied by some shoving and another shot into the air. My father maneuvers us to the edges of the crowd, and I go willingly, all thoughts of sneaking into the woods fled, burned out of possibility by the images of the child they hung and the red-haired girl.

 

“Disperse and return to your homes!” the Peacekeeper on the dias yells. “Any stragglers will be shot!”

 

In a strangely disjointed flow, we move out of the square. Somehow, my family is jostled to the middle of the crowd. As we turn down a lane in the Seam, new horrors await. Peacekeepers throw objects out the front door of a shack, a woman pleads on her knees, tears streaming down her face, hands grasping at a Peacekeeper with gold stripes, his half visor covering his eyes. The man stands before her, impassive and cold, and watches as more gold striped Peacekeepers drag a young man from the house as well, his face already bruised and bleeding. The Peacekeepers force him to stand upright with his hands on the walls of the shack, then they tear off his shirt and one swings a lash. He cries out at the first stroke, his hands sliding down the wall, leaving streaks in the layer of coal dust as his mother screams. Red welts appear in his flesh, and the Peacekeeper raises his arm again.

 

My father steers us down a different street as Prim makes a soft, distressed noise when the lash whistles through the air once more. On that street, Peacekeepers have gathered piles of contraband goods. They wrestle Ripper into handcuffs, which is difficult, given her missing arm. One takes a bottle of her liquor, her only livelihood since the mines wouldn’t take her back, even though they’re the reason she lost that arm. The Peacekeeper smashes the bottle over the contraband pile and then drops a lit match amongst the things. Radios, old newspaper clippings, a violin.

 

The fire flares high as my father grabs my neck and forces me to look away as we continue home. We live deep in the Seam, all the way by the meadow. How much more will we have to witness before we reach our illusion of safety.

 

My mind churns with a list of objects in our house, attempting to determine if there is anything that will land us in trouble. We keep our weapons in the woods, hidden in oilcloth to protect them from water, tucked inside hollow logs. It’s a good thing, too. If they found bows and hunting knives like ours in our home, we wouldn’t be lashed against our own home, but probably shot, for inciting rebellion.

 

My stomach churns with each block we traverse and each new violation of dignity it reveals. No wonder my father wants Gale to stay away from us with his treasonous words and seething anger. It does no good, no good at all when the people in power are willing to go to such lengths as these.

 

When we reach the house, my father shoves us inside and shuts the door behind us. I scan the house, opening cupboards and eyeing the food and cutlery stored there as Prim takes stock of her herbs, making sure nothing she has would be reason for punishment. Lady herself is safe. There are no laws against us owning small livestock such as goats, chickens, or even pigs. The family three houses down from us keeps a pair of sheep, even, and sells the wool each spring.

 

My father does the same as me only in the bedroom, but when his eyes discover what Prim is doing, he freezes.

 

“Primrose,” he says sternly.

 

“Not now, Papa,” she snaps and glares at him. I’ve never seen her truly angry before, and in that moment, my father sucks in his breath. He sees it, too. How much she looks exactly like Mama right now in her righteous indignation. “Don’t be a hypocrite when they’re about to bash in our door and tear our life apart for no reason other than that they can.”

 

We stand there, stunned into silence, and then the pounding begins.

 

My heart hammers, and since my father and sister appear to be locked in some kind of silent battle, I slink to the door and open it, my face frozen into neutral.

 

“Primrose!” Mr. Thompson gasps, leaning against the doorframe. “Is Primrose here?”

 

She brushes past me, with a quick apologetic look, her head held high, and a basket draped over her arm.

 

“Right here, Mr. Thompson,” she says, gently taking his arm and guiding him back through the Seam towards his house, and no doubt, his wife.

 

I shut the door and my father curses behind me.

 

“Where the hell does she think she’s going in this chaos?”

 

“To deliver a baby,” I whisper and stand by the front door as my father paces, waiting for the Peacekeepers.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The worst thing they do to us is upend the small trunk in which my father keeps my mother’s things. My father spent exactly five minutes holding a shattered teacup in his hands as he wept before finally rising and attempting to clean up the mess. I help as best I can, carefully scrubbing the dirt from my mother’s dresses and hanging them to dry, then working with him to right the overturned beds and sew the straw back into our mattresses.

 

I assumed the Peacekeepers would do a lot more searching in our home, given my family’s history of poaching. So many other families faced worse than we did. I suppose none of the current Peacekeepers or citizens were willing to risk losing their best source of fresh meats in exchange for a handful of coins or leniency. Really, I suppose it’s because there’s a penalty for purchasing illegal goods as well. Anyone who informed on us would be punished right alongside us.

 

At least they left our dinner basically untouched, although one Peacekeeper did demand a bowl and made me take a bite first, to check for poison he had said, before he scarfed it down. My father and I eat the stew in silence. He stares into the fire and I keep checking the clock, measuring time against curfew and how long it might take Mrs. Thompson to give birth to her baby.

 

I wonder what would possess anyone to bring a child into a world like this. The slim hope that things might get better? They only appear to be getting worse. And if it was foolish for people to gather in the square to protest two nights ago, it would be flat out stupid to do so tonight with all of these unfamiliar and zealous Peacekeepers.

 

“Papa,” I say when it’s only thirty minutes to curfew.

 

“I know,” he says quietly. “We’ll go check on her. Ask the Thompson’s to keep her for the night, if they still need her.”

 

He stands and heads into the bedroom. I follow and watch him pull on his boots. I never took mine off, but I imagine they might bother his leg.

 

“She was right, Katniss. About me being a hypocrite,” he sighs and wobbles slightly as he stands, turns sad gray eyes on me as I shift uncomfortably under his piercing gaze. “I’m sorry. And I’ll apologize to her as well. Just please don't keep secrets like this from me anymore. It’s hard enough protecting you both as things are, secrets make it that much more difficult, understand?”

 

“Yes, Papa,” I whisper, thinking of half a dozen things I want to spill out onto his shoulder right then and there, but the walls have ears and so I settle for shrugging on my jacket and slipping my arm through his as we head out into the dusk. The secrets will have to wait for another day, either when we’re in the woods, or when I can figure out how to tell him without speaking words I shouldn’t.

 

We’ve only gone a few hundred yards when we hear it, the rising rumble of shouts from the square. Papa holds me closer and we pick up our pace, move as quickly as his leg will allow until we reach the Thompson house.

 

While Papa catches his breath, I pound on the door. It opens a tiny amount and one gray eye watches me through the opening. Then the person throws the door open wide. Leevy Thompson reaches through the opening and pulls me inside, dragging my father behind. We nearly stumble and I glare at Leevy.

 

“I’m sorry. So sorry!” she says. “I’m just nervous.”

 

Leevy hurries to the window and glances outside. My father sends me a look I cannot decipher. He straightens and pulls Leevy back from the window. She stands in the middle of the room, fists clenched at her side.

 

“I can’t blame you,” my father says to Leevy. “It’s exciting welcoming a new life into the world. And a lot of responsibility for an older sibling.”

 

A look of confusion sweeps over Leevy’s face as she points toward the window. Her mouth opens and my father cuts her off before she can say anything about the events outside.

 

“Is your father available? I’d like a quick word with him if he is.”

 

Nodding dumbly, Leevy heads back into the bedroom. During the moment the door swings open, my father and I catch the sounds of frantic breathing and the rhythmic cadence of Prim’s voice. Then the door shuts and we’re left alone.

 

“We can’t leave her here,” I whisper.

 

“We may not have a choice,” my father says and glances out the window. “We can’t take her home before the baby arrives, and they may need her to stay longer. She should be safe here.”

 

Mr. Thompson hurries out of the room, his face flushed and his sleeves rolled up.

 

“Sage,” he says and scrubs the stubble forming on his chin. “I know I shouldn’t ask this of you. She’s your youngest girl and all, but I--”

 

“It’s okay,” my father says, stunning every one of us in the room. He swallows and shifts nervously on his feet while Mr. Thompson’s mouth vacillates between open and closed.

 

“She’ll want to make sure the baby’s healthy before she leaves,” I explain, jolting both men out of their odd exchange. “And it sounds like that won’t happen before curfew. Could you see her safely home tomorrow morning? If it isn’t an imposition.”

 

“No, not at all. I’d be happy to. Thank you,” Mr. Thompson says as I loop my arm back through my father’s. He leans into me and I manage a smile for Mr. Thompson.

 

“Then we’ll be on our way, Zeke,” my father says.

 

We couldn’t have been inside the Thompson home for very long, but as we return to the streets, the air vibrates in silent tension. I strain my ears to hear any sounds from the square, but there’s nothing. The light of day rapidly fades as we walk towards home, the streets empty. It feels unsettling. Wrong.

 

I try to distract myself with my father’s sudden turn around. I want to ask him what changed his mind. I want to tell him about Prim learning from the apothecary, to ask about why Mama’s family ignored us for so long and yet now seems willing to reconnect. Or maybe they just want Prim. Either way, it’s a puzzle I want answered.

 

I’m only half paying attention as we turn a corner, a handful of blocks away from our home. My father slows, and I glance at him, but his eyes have trained on something in the shadows. As we approach, a distant shout breaks the silence, muffled and made unintelligible over distance. I can hear my blood humming in my ears. My stride shifts to the one I use in the woods, to stalk, or when I sense a threat but need to move slowly to avoid detection. Beside me, I can feel my father doing the same.

 

A hand. It’s a hand laying across the street.

 

“Papa,” I whisper as my eyes follow the hand to a body lying prone against the side of a house.

 

“I see it, Katniss,” my father says, extricating my arm from his. I look around us for some sign of a companion or family. He’s not dressed like a Peacekeeper. Papa crouches down in front of him.

 

“Who is it?” I ask.

 

“Can’t tell. He’s wearing some kind of mask,” Papa says as he waves a hand in front of the person’s face. When that gains no response, Papa picks up the man’s arm and checks his wrist for a pulse. “He’s alive but injured. Badly.”

 

“We should go,” I urge, thinking of the girl in the woods and the child in Eleven. I can feel the fires of my dreams licking at our heels.

 

“We can’t leave him here like this,” my father says and grabs hold of both the man’s arms, staggering to his feet as he tries to pull the extra weight off the ground. My father grunts and I rush forward to help him hoist the man over Papa’s shoulders. “It wouldn’t be decent.”

 

“We don’t know anything about him, Papa,” I say, voice strained. Whoever this is weighs a fair amount. Finally, we get him secure on Papa’s shoulders with Papa leaning on me for added support.

 

“Let’s just get him home and fixed up as best we can,” Papa says.

 

We take cautious steps, swaying slightly under the load. My heart thumps wildly in my chest, every beat an affirmation that this isn’t a wise decision. That we’re only inviting danger on ourselves. My only consolation is that if we do get caught, Prim was out of the house, with no knowledge of what we’ve done. They won’t be able to hang her. I hope.

 

Behind us, close to the square, there’s an explosion and a series of screams rise up on the air. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a few deep breaths.

 

“Papa,” I try to reason with him, but he wants to hear none of it.

 

“Hush, Katniss. We’re almost home.”

 

When we reach the house, I slip out from under my father’s arm to open the door, holding it ajar as my father staggers inside with our charge. I check the streets one last time, grateful that no one appears to be out tonight, before I shut and bolt the door. It won’t do much good against Peacekeepers if they decide to enter, but it will at least give us something resembling a warning.

 

“Turn on some lights,” my father orders. I flip the switch, but there’s nothing. As usual, the electricity is out. “Candles, Katniss. Light some candles.”

 

Gathering a few and a box of matches, I follow my father into the bedroom as he lays the man down on the bed I share with Prim.

 

“This way, we can pass him off as Prim, asleep in bed,” my father whispers.

 

“No one will buy that,” I argue.

 

“Katniss,” my father gives me a look that I know, even in this gloom, is creased in annoyance. “Your sister reminded me of something today, and I need you to work with me, no matter how scared you might be.”

 

“I’m not scared,” I insist, and set up the candles just to prove it.

 

“Good,” my father says. “Help me get this sweater off of him.”

 

It’s a bit of a struggle, but we manage to get him upright and pull the thing off of him. He’s got a stocky build, broad through the shoulders, and warmth radiates off him, even through the layers of clothes. As we move to lay him back down, I notice a dark patch on my pillow.

 

“His head’s bleeding,” I tell Papa, my stomach beginning to revolt.

 

“Okay,” my father says, voice wavering for the first time since we found the stranger. “We’ll have to take the mask off. Your mother always used to say that head wounds look worse than they really are because they bleed so damn much. I’ll go see if Prim’s left us anything to work with. You get that thing off of him.”

 

I hesitate for a moment, thinking about the events of the past week and it occurs to me that the reason the stocks and the jail are busy but not overflowing is because, like this stranger, the protestors must have worn masks. Unidentified unless they were arrested, caught.

 

“At least we’ll know where to take you home later,” I say as I swallow back bile.

 

My hands shake as I grasp the lower edge of the mask and work it up over his face. My breath catches as I find smooth, pale skin. A nose dotted with freckles. Golden lashes that catch the light of the candles. Nauseous at the thought of what I’m probably going to find, I decide to get it over with and yank it the rest of the way off.

 

“Oh no,” I whisper. _Not him._ Because I know this face, and its owner’s name, the familiar ashy blond waves. The removal of the mask has confirmed my worst fears.

 

“Who is it?” my father asks as he returns, spilling a few things on the bed, and giving me worried looks. I swallow and wave at the boy in my bed.

 

“He’s a Merchant, Papa,” I say.

 

“I can see that,” my father says, squinting at a tiny needle. “His abdomen is sliced pretty good. He needs stitches, I think. Do you know him?”

 

“No,” I whisper. Shaking my head, and unable to look at my father. It’s not really a lie. I don’t _know_ him. We’ve never spoken more than a few words at school. I think he accidentally bumped into me in the crowded hallways once and said, “I’m sorry.”

 

But I know his face. And his name. Peeta Mellark. You don’t forget the face of someone who was your only hope.

 

Shaking myself free me of my thoughts, I look at my father, who is clumsily trying to thread a needle.

 

“Here,” I say, taking it from him and swiftly threading it while my father shifts to cleaning the head wound. “We should take him to the apothecary. He’ll be able to help more.”

 

“No,” my father says as he hands me bloodstained rags. I set them aside and my father grabs my hand. “Katniss, is that really what you want to do?”

 

I don’t know what I want to do. I feel like I owe Peeta Mellark my life. And not just mine either. In a second, I relive it. The moment Peeta Mellark imprinted his face forever on my memory. The frigid rain pouring down my back as I sat huddled next to the apple tree behind the bakery. It’s a debt that has hung on my heart every day since, and one that I feared having to repay. And here in front of me is a chance to square that debt. I don’t think my father is talking about that, though. He doesn’t know about Peeta Mellark helping us two years ago. Even though I don’t know why my father thinks it’s a bad idea to take him to the apothecary, I shake my head. It feels right.

 

“I’ll bandage his head,” I say as I hand my father the threaded needle in exchange for a couple of bandages.

 

My mother focused on teaching Prim, but I learned enough to be able to at least get the gash on the back of Peeta’s head cleaned and covered. The bleeding should stop soon.

 

“Now, I couldn’t find anything for pain,” my father says nervously. I turn to find him angling the light and then unbuttoning Peeta’s shirt and leaving it gaping open.

 

“You can’t sew him up with nothing for pain,” I whisper harshly. The pain will be monstrous.

 

“We don’t have much of a choice, unless you know where Prim keeps her spare medicines.”

 

“There’s sleep syrup in the kitchen,” I say and my father shakes his head as he cleans the area around the gaping wound on Peeta’s lower abdomen. Each swipe only clears the area for a second before more blood oozes out. I swallow and breathe deep with my eyes shut, cursing my squeamishness and wishing Prim was here instead. She’d be far more helpful.

 

My hopes for quickly stitching Peeta up and then returning him to the bakery before curfew fade into ash. Then I glance at the clock and realize, it wouldn’t have happened anyway. It’s already past curfew.

 

“If we give him sleep syrup, we won’t be able to move him quickly, and we might need to do that.”

 

“Do you think the Peacekeepers will search houses tonight?” I whisper, suddenly worried at all the things we’ve said within the fence. Wondering if the Capitol would go so far as to wire individual houses. Seems like a lot of extra nothing to sort through for the slim hope of information they’d want. Either way, we’re already in too deep. My father shrugs.

 

“They might. I need you to hold him down,” my father says, wiping at sweat that has formed on his brow. Nodding, I position myself on the bed and grip Peeta’s shoulders. My father takes a few rasping breaths and tells me he’s going to start sewing. I look away, unable to watch the needle piercing Peeta’s skin.

 

He twitches beneath me, his lips ticking and then his eyes fly wide as a shout escapes his mouth. His body jerks from side to side, trying to escape the pain.

 

“Hold him, Katniss. Hold him!” My father says.

 

“Shh, shhh,” I coo and try to climb on top of Peeta. Eyes wild with fear, he nearly knocks me to the ground once, but I manage to get my knees on his upper arms and hands over his mouth. He bucks beneath me and I strain to hold him. Even wounded and weakened, he’s strong.Tears leak from the corners of both our eyes as Peeta squeezes his eyes shut and his wails of pain vibrate against my palms.

 

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I plead frantically, scared that the neighbors might hear him. “We’re trying to help you. Shhh. Hush. You have to be quiet, Peeta.”

 

He freezes beneath me, his arms unbearably tense against my knees, the muscles hard as rock. Peeta opens his eyes and stares at me. In the light of the candles, his blue eyes appear darker, a deeper royal blue instead of their normal shade.

 

“It’s okay,” I say again as his face contorts in pain and I muffle his scream with my palms, although he keeps looking at me. “I know it hurts, but we have to stitch it together. Just look at me, okay? Keep looking at me.”

 

He nods and I smile in relief. His arms shake against my legs but I keep talking to him, nonsensical words meant to soothe and comfort. He never takes his eyes off mine, even as tears stream down his cheeks and his soft sounds of distress puff against my hands. I keep hoping maybe he’ll pass out with the pain, but his gaze remains steadfast.

 

“It’s okay,” I whisper softly, my head bobbing in encouragement. He’s vibrating with the effort to hold still, his head mirroring the motions of my own, maybe in an attempt to soothe himself. Pain, fear, confusion, and disbelief swirl in his eyes. It’s a look I’m familiar with. The look of one who knows he’s become the prey. I move one hand away from his mouth and slowly brush back a lock of hair that’s plastered itself to his forehead, the way one soothes a wounded animal. His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t flinch away from my touch. “It’ll be okay. We’re not gonna let them hurt you.”

 

I don’t know where my words come from. Some deep well of conviction I never thought I could possess. I blink and tell myself it’s because of what he once did for me. He probably doesn’t remember, but I do. And I’ll never forget it. Never not owe him for it.

 

“Almost done,” my father says behind me.

 

“Just a few more stitches,” I whisper. “Then you can rest, okay, Peeta?”

 

His eyes are turning glassy, my legs are aching with the affort of keeping him pinned to the bed.

 

“Done,” my father sighs in relief.

 

“All done,” I whisper. My words meet silence. It’s then that I realize how close I am to Peeta’s face, hunched over him. I sit up and crawl off of him, set to work helping my father bandage the newly sewn gash on his abdomen.

 

Peeta watches us while we work. Every now and then, I feel my father’s eyes on me, but I can’t bring myself to look at him just yet, confused by my response to Peeta Mellark. Finally, as he helps Peeta lift his hips so I can wind gauze around him to secure the bandage, my father breaks the silence.

 

“So you thought it’d be a good idea to protest the Capitol,” my father says quietly. My heart thuds in my chest as I keep my eyes trained on what I’m doing but my ears honed onto the sound of my father’s voice. Peeta doesn’t answer, so my father keeps talking.

 

“I once thought that as well. It would be easy, we thought, since they seemed to care so little about Twelve. And it was the right thing to do. They had just upped the quotas and cut pay. I had two daughters and a wife to feed. Beyond that, there’s only so far you can push a human being before their dignity strikes back. I know why someone from the Seam would want to rebel, but it’s hard to figure a Merchant kid rebelling.”

 

My eyes flicker up to Peeta and find him watching me again. For a moment, we stare at one another, then his eyes shift slowly to my father.

 

“Unless of course, you’re facing a future in the mines. What are you, the third son, right? Not much chance you’ve got a town living waiting for you unless you marry into one. That hurts the pride, I imagine.”

 

Still, Peeta says nothing. I blink and think about this for a moment, though. How would I feel if the only way to stay out of the mines was to marry out of it? Truthfully, that is the case. I’d have to marry a Merchant, though. For some reason, I look back up at Peeta, and feel disappointed when I find his eyes still trained on my father.

 

“Hm,” my father hums, a wistful smile on his face. “The talk always starts in the mines. Angry words whispered under the hum of machinery and the clang of pickaxe on rocks. Hard to eavesdrop down there, you see. Even harder to get electricity that deep for listening devices. So we talked until our jaws hurt and pride stung even worse.

 

“They must’ve had an informant or something, though we can’t prove it. We’d only just begun to plan when the explosion happened. Ninety-six miners killed. Forty-eight wounded. A handful of us crippled for life. Lost arms, twisted legs, missing eyes. We should have known better that day, when they sent us into an older shaft, claiming the night shift had worked to shore it up, make it safe again. They didn’t need to claim responsibility for the explosion. The message was clear. Rebel and we’ll kill you, replace you with slaves more willing to take our abuse. You feel like a slave in your warm kitchen, baker boy?”

 

Peeta licks his lips as we tie off the bandage and speaks for the first time since we brought him here.

 

“Don’t have to be a slave to know it’s wrong,” he says hoarsely. My father grunts.

 

“You didn’t answer me. And do you know how much danger you put your family in tonight?”

 

Peeta turns his head away from my father, his gaze briefly flickering to me. “It’s different for us. They wouldn’t hang my family like they would’ve yours. I’d be a disgrace, sure. Customers would stay away from the bakery for a week or two, but eventually, they’d return.”

 

“How can you know that?” I ask harshly, suddenly angry at Peeta, for his careless treatment of his family. I can’t imagine putting my sister or my father in danger like that, although I suppose we already have, for Peeta.

 

“It’s what happened to the apothecary about twenty-five years ago,” Peeta says. My father chuckles lightly, making both Peeta and I stare at him.

 

“Well, son, I can’t argue with that one,” my father says and I realize that Peeta is talking about my parents. My mother. And what happened to her family when she ran away to the Seam to marry my father. It never occurred to me that anyone other than her might have paid some sort of price for her actions. Maybe that’s why her own father shunned her. To cut ties so his customers would forget her indiscretions and return.

 

“But there’s a mighty big difference between falling in love and marrying below your class, and rioting in the streets,” my father says softly.

 

“We weren’t hurting anyone,” Peeta says just as softly. “Not even the Peacekeepers.”

 

“No, I imagine you weren’t. But sometimes it doesn’t matter what your intentions were, things go wrong anyways.”

 

My father stands, a little unsteadily and moves to remove Peeta’s boots. I realize we’ve long since finished bandaging him and stand to help my father.

 

“Take my advice, son. Find yourself a lovely Merchant girl to marry. Exist in blissful ignorance of what really goes on in the mines. Love her like she’s the sunrise and the sunset, and die a happy old man.”

 

“Thank you, sir. But I’m not sure I can just turn my back on the wrongs I witness here and live happily. I’ve done that for so long already.”

 

My father nods, something akin to admiration in his eyes. “Maybe not. But for your sake and that of your family, you should try. Now get some sleep. We’ll see about getting you home in the morning, but the Peacekeepers might come knocking on doors tonight.”

 

Peeta nods and settles onto the bed. I cover him with a sheet as he closes his eyes and turns his face away from me. My father burns the bloody rags and pillow, and the mask Peeta was wearing while I scrub his shirt and sweater. My father places Peeta’s boots next to his own, to make it appear that they belong to him instead. Once we’ve cleaned up our mess, I check on Peeta once more. His breathing is soft and even, so I cover his face with the sheet and my father motions me over to his bed.

 

“You sleep with me tonight, Katniss.”

 

“Yes, Papa,” I say and obediently change for bed, washing my face and hands before sliding in and waiting for my father. I expect questions as I think about what just happened. How I used Peeta’s name. How my father figured out who he is just from that. There’s no way my father will believe I don’t know him now.

 

My body sinks into the bed, and I’m wound so tight that I think sleep will be elusive. But as I stare at the lump on my bed that is Peeta’s body, my limbs drag me under. I barely register my father’s weight shifting the mattress, and part of my brain thinks I imagine his last few words.

 

“So he’s the baker’s youngest son. Peeta Mellark. And you do know him. At least a little. How ironic.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sleep plagues me. Taunts me with strange dreams and I wake in the middle of the night. With a sigh, I head into the other room to get some water and rummage in the cupboards for anything we might have, knowing that I won’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon. I manage to find a pair of small oranges and a few slices of bread. Normally, I would eat in the main room, but a quick glance out the window terrifies me.

 

The horizon to the west glows menacing red, somewhere close to the mines.

 

Retreating to the bedroom, I peel one of the oranges and debate sitting on my father’s bed with him, or my bed with Peeta. As I’m mulling it over, the lump shifts and I find myself staring down into the eyes of Peeta Mellark. He doesn’t look away. I’m used to him looking away. Until tonight.

 

As we stand there, I think of all the times I’d find his gaze on me in school, only to watch it flit away. My muscles tense under his unwavering perusal.

 

“Why did you help me?” he asks, his voice hoarse. Without thinking about it, my arm extends, offering my cup of water to him. He eyes it for a second and then looks back up at me.

 

“It’s water,” I explain. “Drink.”

 

With a wince, Peeta manages to sit upright before accepting the glass and drinking deeply.

 

“Thanks,” he says after he drains the cup. I return to the kitchen to refill it. As Peeta sips this time, I offer one of the oranges, but his face turns green and he declines. I perch on the edge of the bed and munch on the tart fruit as we study one another.

 

The strange thing is, we’re probably pondering the same question. _Why did you help me?_

 

It was shortly after my mother had died, when I was fifteen years old. My father came down with the same illness that had killed her. He couldn’t work in the mines for over a month, and then he worked shortened hours for at least another month. Sometimes, in a delirious rant, my father would call out for her. Beg for her to stay with him. Once or twice, he mistook Prim for her. She held him and placed cold cloths on his brow as he whispered to her, things he would usually only say to my mother.

 

When I told Prim I’d take care of him, she’d shaken her head with tears in her eyes. She thought it might help him to believe Mama was there by his side still. I thought she was nuts. That the loss of our mother was only prolonging his illness.

 

Without my mother’s income from healing and my father bedridden, the money disappeared so fast. It was in the middle of a bitterly cold winter, one of the worst the District could remember. I was desperate and selling whatever I could. That afternoon, I had been in the Hob, trying to sell some old clothes that had belonged to Prim. She’d long since outgrown them and my parents had been holding onto them, along with the hope for a third child. With my mother gone, I didn’t think we’d need them anymore.

 

No one else seemed to need them either. We were close to starving. We’d barely eaten in days beyond some broth and mint tea. I was dizzy with the hunger and stumbled through the frigid rain, along the alley behind the row of stores lining the square. I searched the trash cans for something to eat, to take home to my sister with her ribs showing and her hollow cheeks, her steadfast determination to nurse our father back to health.

 

I found nothing but empty cans. Not a scrap left behind, as they must have been emptied recently. I remember that I kept looking, futily lifting lids and staring, hoping to conjure food in their gleaming depths. As I approached the bakery, a waft of warm, yeast scented air reached me from the open back door. It almost bowled me over with the hunger it elicited. I checked their can, too, but it was cruelly empty as well.

 

Then a shrill voice began yelling obscenities at me. Peeta’s mother. The baker’s wife. She yelled about Seam trash pawing through their cans and being nothing but a menace, a drain. Entitled and worthless. I turned and tried to flee, but only made it as far as the shadows of the apple tree. As I collapsed against the trunk, I looked back. She had left the doorway, but in her place stood a boy. I knew his face from school. We’re the same age so we’ve always been in some of the same classes, I suppose. It was Peeta, watching me. Only for a second, though. Then he turned and retreated into the warmth of the bakery.

 

Relieved that he didn’t tell his mother about my presence, I slid down the trunk, ignoring the scrape of the bark against my skin as I tried to cry. I felt I ought to cry then since I was wishing for death to take me rather than return home empty handed.

 

There was a screech, and I looked up, expecting to find the baker’s wife returned to finish chasing me off. But the scream came from inside the bakery. There was the sound of a sharp blow and then a slight scuffle. Peeta came stumbling out the back door, clutching a couple loaves of bread.

 

“Stupid, worthless creature!” his mother screamed. “No one will buy burned bread. Feed it to the pigs!”

 

I watched as he walked over to the pen where they kept the pigs. His mother stood in the doorway, face twisted in fury, watching him as he tore off a chunk of burned bread and tossed it into the trough. Already, a red welt was forming over Peeta’s right eye and cheek. I wondered what she hit him with. And how could she have done something like that to her son. My parents never laid a hand on us, but that didn’t mean I didn’t know what it looked like. There were kids who lived in the community home. Orphans, children abandoned as babies by desperate girls who couldn’t afford to feed or raise a child. I wasn’t sure which fate was worse, since the children from the home often came to school with bruises on their arms, the imprints of hands on their cheeks. Vacant looks in their eyes.

 

As I sat there, motionless, the bell rang in the bakery, and his mother hustled to the front of the store to help the customer. Peeta looked over his shoulder at the open door once, then glanced my way before tossing the bread in my direction. It landed a few feet away as he hurried back inside, the rain water flattening his hair against his head, making his shirt stick to his frame. His feet squelched loudly in the mud and then he slammed the door shut, cutting off the light and the warmth of the bakery.

 

But the bread just sat there. Right in front of me. Did he mean for me to take it? I didn’t care at that point, and snatched up the bread, stuffing it under my shirt and gasping at the heat of it scorching my skin. But I clung tightly to it, to keep it as dry as possible. This was our chance at life for a few more days.

 

I ran home and burst through the door, shoving the bread into Prim’s hands as she fretted over how wet I was and the fact that I’d probably catch sick. She stared at the loaves as I tore off my clothes and dried myself before dressing in something warm and dry.

 

The bread was fine, nearly perfect. Only a few burned sections that we scraped off with a knife. It was hearty bread, full of raisins and nuts, stuff that a turkey or an entire brace of squirrels might fetch in a trade. Prim and I ate one loaf of it slowly, slice by slice, even managed to coax some of it into our father along with the last of our broth.

 

For the first time in weeks, we went to bed full, and it was only as I drifted off to sleep that I wondered if Peeta Mellark had burned the bread on purpose.

 

It seems an infinitely important question to answer right now. For two years, I’ve let that debt stand, always half expecting him to cash in on it, but somehow not stunned when he never did. After that hollow day, I noticed more about him. I mean, it’s hard not to notice him anyways, but once I was firmly in his debt, I couldn’t help but keep track of the boy with the bread.

 

“Why did you help me?” he asks again. I shrug, trying to make it seem unimportant.

 

“My father didn’t want to leave you in the streets. Why’d you wander this far into the Seam?”

 

“I didn’t think many town families would welcome me with open arms. Besides,” Peeta says, handing the half-empty water cup back to me. “I’m not sure I knew which way I was headed other than away.”

 

Away. Away from the protests and the square, I think.

 

“You think I’m stupid,” he whispers.

 

“I don’t think you’re smart,” I say, and to my surprise, Peeta smiles.

 

“You know, I never really believed the lies the Capitol tries to tell us about people from the Seam. It never made sense to me.”

 

“What lies?” I ask defensively, suddenly angry on behalf of my people.

 

“That the Seam is the reason for all of our suffering. For the rations and restrictions. The tests and everything else. They try to convince us that we aren’t safe in our beds and shouldn’t trust a labor worker as far as we can throw them.”

 

“Well that’s not very fair,” I say, curling my knees up to my chest. “I’ve seen you wrestle and throw hundred pound bags of flour right over your head. You’d probably be able to throw me pretty far.”

 

Peeta’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Uncomfortable with how much I seem to know about him, I try to shrug it off as well.

 

“Then I guess I can trust you,” Peeta says and gives me a sweet smile, with just a hint of shyness. Unexpected warmth flows through me.

 

“Besides,” I say to distract him from the blush spreading across my cheeks. “You helped me once.”

 

Now his brow crinkles in confusion.

 

“What? When?” he says and I stare at the bedsheets, trying to avoid telling him.

 

“The bread,” I whisper.

 

“You mean those crummy burned loaves?”

 

“They weren’t crummy to us,” I say, thinking not of the bread itself but what happened the next day.

 

“I think we can forget that,” Peeta says and anger bubbles in me, indignation at his suggestion that I just forget what I owe him. “I mean, you just saved me from death’s door tonight.”

 

“You wouldn’t understand,” I say testily.

 

“Why not?” he returns. “Because I’m too dense? Too stupid to figure it out?”

 

“No,” I say hotly, checking to make sure our conversation hasn’t woken my father. “Because you’re from town.”

 

“Right,” is all he says, but his voice has calmed, evened out. “It keeps coming back to that. As though I don’t have eyes in my head or the ability to figure out that people who risk their lives to help one another can’t possibly be as bad as the Capitol makes them out to be. That maybe the real enemy isn’t my neighbor but the person deciding all of our fates from miles away with no knowledge of who any of us are and who goes to bed with their stomachs empty, still rumbling with hunger, or filled with the stale leftovers we couldn’t sell.”

 

Peeta shifts in bed and lays back down, pulling the sheet up over his head. I stare at him for a few minutes, wondering about what he said about stale leftovers. I always just assumed that Merchants led a charmed life. Maybe they don’t face the risk of starvation, but most of them barter with my father and me for meat, instead of purchasing it fresh from Rooba. It seems depressing to me, living on the stale leftovers and subsisting only on illegal trades. Maybe the Merchant life isn’t as great as I once thought. At least when my family has food, I can be certain it’s fresh.

 

I stand silently and make my way back to bed, huddling under the covers and fighting my confusion over Peeta Mellark. I sleep fitfully and wake a few hours later as someone knocks on the door. It must be near dawn, and my eyes jump first to my bed. The sheet lays flat on the mattress, no sign of Peeta.

 

Behind me, my father stumbles to the door. As soon as he opens it, Gale barrels inside.

 

“They’re searching homes. There’s a couple Merchants missing and we’ve all been accused of kidnapping and murder,” he says without preamble, his gaze sweeping over our home for any signs of fugitives.

 

My father follows his gaze, and I catch the flicker of worry and confusion as he realizes what I already know. Peeta’s gone. He took his clothes and his boots with him, leaving no sign that he was ever here.

 

“Where’s Prim?” Gale asks sharply.

 

“At the Thompson’s,” my father says. “Gale, why are you barging into our home this early?”

 

“Someone saw you carrying a body into your home last night,” Gale explains.

 

“We didn’t kidnap anyone,” I say rashly. Suddenly angry with Gale, furious with him. It’s a hundred things I’ve been ignoring or trying to excuse for months that all boil to the surface at once. My father places his hands calmly on my shoulders, but he can’t stop the words from flying out of my mouth. “You’re the ones protesting in the streets and bringing violence down on all of our heads. Papa and I just got stuck cleaning up part of your mess.”

 

“Katniss,” my father sighs as Gale’s eyes gleam with the light of the hunt.

 

“Who is he and where’d he go?”

 

“Maybe we helped a girl,” I say and cross my arms, directing all my wrath at being kept in the dark about my father’s past as a rebel at Gale. Now that I think about it, he must have known.

 

I hunt illegally with both of them and I can’t believe they didn’t think I could handle this. It makes perfect sense, though. Gale must have known and tried to convince my father to rise up against the Capitol again. Scared and beaten down by the mining explosion and Mama’s death, my father must have refused, tried to keep all of us as far from any protests as possible. That’s what he told Gale to leave me out of. The uprisings. Until Prim reminded him that sometimes doing what’s right means taking a risk.

 

I’m swamped with sudden guilt for the way I treated Peeta. This is what he was trying to tell me last night. It’s what he’s doing, too. Taking a risk for what he believes is right.

 

Gale heaves a sigh and turns a few times, as though seeking direction.

 

“Okay fine. Don’t tell me what you know, but you can bet the Peacekeepers will be knocking on your door soon and searching the streets for whoever it was you helped. So I hope it was worth the risk.”

 

“He was,” I say, tilting my chin up defiantly. Gale’s eyes flicker in hurt. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. He opens his mouth as though to say more, but then clamps it shut and storms out of the house.

 

“Katniss,” my father cautions. “It was probably unwise to anger Gale.”

 

“I’m not really concerned about that right now, Papa,” I say as I move behind the dressing screen in the bedroom and tug my clothes from yesterday back on. Right now, I’m thinking of Peeta, injured and hobbling through the Peacekeeper riddled streets with no knowledge of their patrols and every chance of getting caught. Perhaps even pulling out his stitches. If the rumor they’re passing around is that the missing Merchants were kidnapped in the midst of the protests, he could probably say he managed to escape, but the stitches and bandages would hint otherwise.

 

Not to mention, I don’t think Peeta would try to blame anyone in the Seam for his condition. Not after what he said to me last night. And I believe him. I’ve paid attention over the past two years and noted how he seems immune to the hatred and distrust that pours forth from so many Merchants, especially those around my age. Now I think I understand why.

 

I sit on the bed as my father tries to stop me, and yank on my boots, rapidly lacing them as my heart thumps and I check the clock, mentally planning the safest route towards town, with no way of knowing if I’ll even manage to cross paths with Peeta.

 

“Papa,” I say forcefully as I stand. “Go back to bed. Prim is safe for now, and you can always say I left without your permission. Or that I went to fetch Prim home. But those excuses won’t work if you’re awake when they knock on the door.”

 

“Katniss, wait,” he says, but I’m already out the door and ducking right, down a street I know should be clear of Peacekeepers right now.

 

Moving as quickly as I can, I slip into dark doorways or down the occasional alleyway to avoid the patrols. They’ve stepped them up, which will make things harder. I’ve almost reach the edges of the Seam and swallow back the fear that I won’t find him when I notice a smear of blood on the side of a house. It’s streaked as though someone tried to remove it by wiping and only succeeded in spreading it further. It’s mostly dry, and at just the right height to have been someone’s abdomen.

 

Hopeful, I continue down that street towards town. At an intersection, I pause and poke my head around the corner, checking right then left. About thirty yards down that street, I see a figure, hunched and moving slowly, blond hair shrouded in morning mist. Peeta.

 

I follow him on silent hunter’s tread, and grasp his arm, covering his mouth with my hand to stifle his cry of alarm as I shove him into the space between two houses.

 

“Are you mad?” I ask in a whisper. “They would’ve caught you for sure.”

 

He glares at me, and satisfied that he won’t cry out again, I remove my hand.

 

“I couldn’t put you and your father at risk anymore.”

 

I roll my eyes, exasperated. “So you’d rather make our risk mean nothing by getting captured this morning? By hanging for treason?”

 

“Better to hang by myself than with you beside me,” he whispers. I blink, unnerved by his tone of voice. He looks away, his jaw clenched. The sight transports me back to another day. The day after he gave me the bread.

 

The day had dawned with a beautiful blue sky, fresh and cleaned by the rains. The air had warmed, as though spring had arrived overnight. I meant to thank him somehow that day, although I knew it would be foolish to approach a Merchant kid in school. I was determined to find a way. Then he walked past me in the hallway, with a group of his friends, and never even looked at me. I watched him pass, sick to my stomach at the sight of the angry purple bruises on his face, his right eye swollen shut.

 

In the school yard, I thought to try again when I found him, loitering with his brothers, but staring at me. He dropped his gaze, though, and I watched him a moment as his jaw clenched. Unable to look at his bruised face, I dropped my gaze as well, my courage once more fleeing. That’s when I saw the bright yellow dandelion, the first one of spring, and bells went off in my head. I had been hunting and foraging and trading with my father for years at that point. But as I reached for the dandelion and plucked it, twirling it in my fingers, it occurred to me that I knew how we could survive. I could do it without my father by my side. All of it.

 

I grabbed Prim and raced home. We spent the afternoon foraging for dandelions and other edible plants that carpeted the reawakening meadow. That night, we feasted on dandelion and wildflower salad. The next morning, I ventured into the woods, alone for the first time. I didn’t make it as far as our snare lines, but I did manage to shoot a squirrel and a wild dog. The dog was a happy accident, and I braved the Hob to trade with Greasy Sae.

 

Wild dog isn’t usually a popular catch, and I don’t hunt them on purpose, but meat is meat, and if I have to shoot one out of protection, like I did that day, Greasy Sae has always been more than willing to buy it and call it beef stew.

 

After that, I ventured further and further alone, and my father healed under Prim’s care. When he was well enough to return to the woods and to the mines, I had been carrying the brunt of our hunting and trading for over a month. He saw no reason to stop me.

 

Since then, I’ve never been able to shake the connection, as silly and farfetched as it may seem, between Peeta and the bread that gave me hope and the dandelion that gave me courage to stand up and do what needed to be done to ensure the survival of my family. The least I can do is make sure he survives just one more day, the way he once did for me.

 

“Did you hear me?” he says and I realize that I zoned out for far too long. “I said go home, Katniss.”

 

“No,” I say simply. “You won’t make it another three blocks without me. And I will not have you wasting my father’s and my sacrifice on some noble cause.”

 

“That doesn’t make sense. You’re risking your own life right now when your safety _is_ what you’ve deemed my noble cause.”

 

“Shut up and lean on me,” I say, pulling his arm over my shoulder. His weight is comforting, the warmth of him against me a reminder that he’s still alive, if not out of danger yet. For some reason, it steadies my nerves.

 

“Why?” he whispers in my ear, his breath tickling the hairs on my neck. “Give me one good reason why.”

 

“Because,” I say, looking out into the street to ensure that our way is clear. “You would do the same for me.”

 

I have no idea why I believe this about Peeta Mellark, but he thankfully doesn’t refute it and we move down the street, back into shadows to take a rest, down another block and finally behind the first set of town houses. It’s slow going, but we move towards the square, the only sounds keeping us company the thumping of our own hearts, the puffs of our labored breaths, the scrape of his feet on the dirt, and the distant noises of Peacekeepers searching homes.

 

As we take a break against a store that sells men’s clothing to the wealthy, I hear a noise that stops my blood cold. Orders being shouted back and forth. We’re tucked in an alley, behind a pile of crates, but if a Peacekeeper walks down the alley, there’s nowhere to hide.

 

Peeta’s eyes widen in fear as their voices draw closer, and I hold a hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds of his breathing. He nods in understanding and places one of his hands over mine for a second. Reassured that he understands how much danger we’re in, I remove my hand. He snatches it up and laces our fingers together. The contact surprises me, but I hold tight, unwilling to let go. His presence is strangely steadying, solid as a rock.

 

Shoes scuff on the paving stones and I lean closer to Peeta, craving warm human contact before we’re dragged to the square and flogged. The white uniform comes into view and halts. I stare at the familiar green eyes and freckled face, trying to convey my apologies to Darius as his mouth gapes open at us. What a sight we must be to him.

 

He blinks and shakes his head just the smallest amount.

 

“Find anything, Darius?” A harsh voice calls from the main street. He swallows and turns away from us, walking confidently back to his commander.

 

“Just a couple of alleycats, Commander,” he says. “I think one’s missing a leg. Tough little bastard.”

 

“Alright, let’s keep looking,” the commander yells. “Next street!”

 

Peeta and I listen to the sounds of them moving on and release loud, relieved breaths once they’re far enough away to be well out of earshot.

 

“That was close,” Peeta whispers. “You sure you don’t want to go home?”

 

“We’ve gotten this far,” I say and drag him out from behind the crates to keep moving.

 

“How do you know you can trust me?” He asks at our next stop. “The distrust goes both ways. I’m not an idiot. I’ve watched too many people from the Seam drop their gaze and shy away from Merchants in what looks an awful lot like fear.”

 

“I told you,” I say nonchalantly. “You helped me once.”

 

“So we’re back to that bread, are we?”

 

“Yes,” I say, watching him closely as I ask the question he already asked of me. “Why’d you do it? Why did you help me?”

 

“You wouldn’t understand,” he says, his voice tinged with something like hurt.

 

“Because I’m too dense?” I ask archly. He searches my eyes and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my lips. He smiles back at me and my use of his own words.

 

“No, you were always way too smart for someone like me. Fierce and independent. I guess that’s why I never managed to work up the nerve to talk to you.”

 

I shake my head, not wanting to accept what he’s saying to me.

 

“You’re shaking your head,” he says. “And here I thought I’d been so obvious. Everyone else in this District seems to know that I’ve had a crush on you forever. I thought that was part of why you were always scowling at me in school.”

 

“I was scowling because you were always staring,” I say and blush, because I know that’s not entirely true. He grins at me, clearly knowing now that I’m partially lying, trying to deflect it all back on him. He wasn’t the only one staring.

 

“Was I?” he whispers, the stupid grin still on his face. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’ll stop. You know, if we survive the day.”

 

My breath catches as we watch one another. I stare into the blue eyes, the same color as that glorious spring sky two years ago, that I somehow trust. I can’t explain it and look away, embarrassed.

 

“No, it’s fine. I don’t mind that much.” There’s a noise a few blocks behind us and we hurry down the street a little further. We’re only a few buildings away from the bakery.

 

“The bandages and injuries won’t be easy to explain,” I say, suddenly worried about what happens once we get him home.

 

“It’s okay,” he says. “I can hide the one on my stomach fairly easily and I’ll just say the one on my head is from fighting with my brothers.”

 

“But won’t they call your bluff?” I ask.

 

“No,” he says with a strange, sad smile. “They’ll assume I got it somewhere else.”

 

Suddenly, I’m crouched against the tree again, listening to his mother scream at him and strike his face. My insides flip at the thought that it may have been a normal occurrence. That no one at school or in the District, or even within his own family would question why Peeta Mellark shows up with mysterious bruises and cuts. It makes me angry and indignant.

 

He shrugs and looks back out into the streets, eyes the bakery just fifty yards away from where we hide.

 

“So what happens after I walk through that door?” he asks. Now it’s my turn to shrug. “I mean between you and me. Do we just go back to pretending the other one doesn’t exist?”

 

I start to shake my head, the idea unpleasant, but then I’m thinking of Gale and the rest of the District and how would we even explain whatever this is, some kind of clandestine friendship, or at least a truce of sorts, between a girl from the Seam and the Boy with the Bread.

 

“I don’t know,” I whisper. Something flickers in Peeta’s eyes, and his voice turns hollow.

 

“Well I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’d ask you to start coming to our door to trade again, at least while I’m there working, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea either.”

 

“We’ll be fine, Peeta,” I say, certain he means it as an insult because there’s a part of me that still doesn’t believe a Merchant could be this nice or selfless, despite all the evidence to the contrary. “My family finds ways to survive.”

 

“I know that,” he says with a smile. “You forget I’ve eaten your squirrels.”

 

“I haven’t forgotten,” I say, unable to explain to him what it is I’m thinking or feeling right now as his smile widens. I check to make sure the coast is clear and drag him the last fifty yards to the apple tree where I once waited for death and instead received a gift from this boy.

 

“Well maybe I just want to see you again,” Peeta whispers.

 

“You shouldn’t,” I say and keep an eye open for people emerging from their homes for the day as Peeta catches his breath and we hobble to the back steps.

 

“Is it Gale?” he asks softly.

 

“What?” I say. “Gale’s my friend. He wouldn’t want to see me get hurt.”

 

“Oh,” is all Peeta says. When we reach the steps, I release him. He leans a hand on the wall and snatches my hand as it retreats, presses it to his lips. They’re soft and warm against my cold skin, releasing a fluttering of butterflies in my middle.

 

“Thank you, Katniss,” he says and then climbs the handful of stairs before disappearing into the bakery.

 

I foolishly stand there a moment before I begin my trek home. I move a lot faster without Peeta, but I can’t erase the feel of his lips on me or the way his eyes glowed as he kissed my hand. As I reach our house and collapse into my father’s waiting arms, barely noticing Prim in the back corner, I realize why it affected me so much. How many times did I see my father do exactly that to my mother, look at her that way and kiss her hand.

 

And as I sit there in my father’s embrace, fighting back tears I don’t understand, I find myself wishing for the weight of Peeta’s arms around my shoulders. But how can that be when I barely know him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good News! I delayed posting this chapter here until chapter 2 was nearly finished. It is currently undergoing final edits and should be posted either later this week or early next week. Thank you for reading and I'd love to hear what you think so far!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERLARK FIC EXCHANGE, PROMPT 36: I was watching the movie '71 and I got this everlark prompt idea where it's panem but without the games and there is a rebellion starting in d12 and peeta takes part in it but during a street riot he gets injured and katniss and her dad find him and take him in and take care of him for a while and hide him from authorities looking for rebels. -Submitted by Anonymous
> 
> A/N: Welp, as I read back through everything I’ve written, I realized I was apparently far more inspired by the film than I thought. This story is a total deviation from the plot line, but I’ve borrowed quite a few of the more searing images in the film. Also, the title is part of one of the best lines in the movie, spoken by Eamon, a former army medic, during the scene when he and his daughter, Brigid, are stitching up the injured Private Gary Hook. Which incidentally, is the scene the original prompt is based on. The line is too good not to share with you, given how well it fits with the themes of The Hunger Games. Offensive word starred out just in case. But you get the idea.
> 
> “Posh c**** telling thick c**** to kill poor c****. Well that’s the army for you. It’s all a lie.”
> 
> My thanks to the Anon who submitted this prompt, I truly hope you’ve enjoyed what I came up with, although it’s probably a lot longer than what you were expecting. I’ve taken so much delight in starting with that one event and spinning a story around it.
> 
> Also thanks to javistg for hosting the everlarkficexchange and helping to keep our fandom alive.
> 
> And to peetabreadgirl and titania522 for slogging through the lengthy chapters to help me edit and not make a total idiot of myself. Love you ladies, <3
> 
> Now for the standard disclaimer, I am not Suzanne Collins nor am I affiliated with Lionsgate, Warp Films, or Creative Scotland. In fact, I’m not affiliated with any movie production or book publishing companies on any continent. Which means I have no claim to these characters or their story lines and make no monetary gains from writing this.
> 
> WARNINGS: Rated Teen and up for depictions of violence and executions, equivalence to racism and police brutality, character and child deaths. Offensive language and slurs. Brief Everthorne (sorry not sorry!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

We stand in the middle of the main room, my father rocking us as he explains to my sister that we had a rough night and I try to get control over myself. I latch onto his explanation for my state. It's just a product of the emotional ride this night and morning have been. I’m exhausted.  As the tears abate, I sniffle softly and wait for the feeling of safety I associate with my father's arms to blanket me in warmth.

 

Before that can happen, the whistle at the mines sounds and I groan, wiping the moisture off my face and reluctantly tearing myself out of my father’s embrace.

 

“I'll pack your lunch,” I say, reminding everyone that today is supposed to be a normal work and school day. I wonder how Peeta will deal with that. I was so focused on getting him home that I forgot to check his stitches or tell him how to care for his wounds before I left him. Thinking of the blood smear that led me to him, I take a few deep breaths.

 

He should stay at home today, resting in bed, but without any symptoms of illness, that would be highly suspicious. So would bleeding in the middle of class if he’s pulled out any stitches.

 

Since I can't do anything about it now, I pack Papa’s lunch as he dresses for work. Before he leaves, he rests his hands on my shoulders and holds my gaze, his eyes unflinching. Worried but also...proud?

 

“Katniss,” he says softly.

 

“Don't worry Papa,” I say and have to clear my throat to unstick the unwelcome rasp in my voice. “I'll help Prim with Lady and starting a fresh batch of medicines. Then straight to school.”

 

He nods and opens his mouth to say more, but ends up sighing and giving both Prim and I quick tugs on our braids. I can't help it. Even though I know he didn't because he hates to soil our clothes with the coal dust embedded in his coveralls, I wish he had hugged us.

 

After he departs for his shift at the mines, Prim and I set to work taking care of her morning chores. We talk idly of maybe buying seedlings from the apothecary, at least for the most vital herbs Prim needs. Although I’ve no idea where we’ll get the money for that. Not to mention we’ve no place to plant them. The small back yard is out. Lady’s pen takes up the entire space, and goats will eat anything and everything. Which is normally a good thing because it means she’s the easiest member of our family to keep fed, but it means we can’t plant a medicine garden in back. Neither of us says it, but with the direction things look to be headed, it might not be long before sneaking past the fence becomes impossible. 

 

About an hour before we have to be at school, I glance in Papa’s shaving mirror where it hangs on the wall, to fix my braid. He polishes that mirror every night before he shaves, so there’s only a slight coating of dust to cloud my image. I stand there, arms raised over my head in the midst of braiding my hair and stare at my sunken eyes, ringed in the purple marks of a fretful night’s sleep. How long did I sleep anyways? It couldn’t have been for very long.

 

“Is everything alright?” Prim asks, and I know what she’s really asking is  _ What happened here last night? _

 

I don’t even know where to begin. I want to share it with her, all of it. To explain the tangled web I’ve managed to get myself caught in when yesterday I was just Katniss Everdeen, girl from the Seam who hunts in the woods and trades in the Hob. Now I’ve apparently aided a rebel in escaping arrest and involved a Peacekeeper in the process. I’m no stranger to breaking the laws, but this means I’ve escalated from crimes that receive time in the stocks to ones that result in death. It’s a little hard to wrap my head around.

 

My breathing escalates. My heart palpitates the longer I think about it. I can feel Peeta’s yells against my palms, see the crazed look in his eyes in the moments before his mind registered who was restraining him. The weight of him as he leaned on me. The feel of our fingers entwined and the rush of fear when Darius discovered us. My throat constricts painfully.

 

“I can’t breathe,” I say and hastily finish braiding my hair. I throw on my jacket, flee the house and the onslaught of things I’m not ready to analyze just yet. I stand in the meadow and lean my head back, stare up at the grey clouds obscuring the sky. More than anything, I want to disappear into the woods, but I can’t. After last night, it would be pushing the odds too far. Instead, I skirt the edges of the district, with no clear direction in mind.

 

Eventually, I find myself nearing the Hob. It used to be a warehouse, where they stored the coal brought up from the mines on a series of lifts and then transported to the Hob on conveyor belts before being loaded on trains. When they figured out it was more efficient to reroute the belts to the train station and load the coal directly onto trains leaving the district, the people of the Seam turned the abandoned building into a black market.

 

My feet scrape on the rocks as I come to a halt and stare at the Hob. Or what used to be the Hob. Now it’s a pile of smoldering logs, still burning in some places. I think of the strange red glow I saw last night, right before I shared a glass of water with Peeta. They must have torched it, and it would have burned hot and long with all of the coal dust embedded in the old wood planks. My heart twists and I blink. It wasn’t much, but it was a vital part of our lives here.

 

“Had to see it for myself, too,” Gale says behind me.

 

I whirl around in surprise. He moves so silently, it’s a little unnerving. I never heard him approach.

 

“No one was hurt, I hope,” I say.

 

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “No one was here when they started the fire.”

 

Turning back to face the wreckage, I shove my hands in my pockets.

 

“Long night,” he says as he comes to stand beside me. We said things, both of us, in anger, and I don't know how to reach back across that to fix our friendship. We’ve disagreed before, but this fight runs deeper in my blood.

 

“Shouldn't you be in a mine shaft?” I say, pushing down my disgust with myself, the part of me that still smarts over his betrayals winning over the part of me that values his friendship. Some start to mending rifts. But then, I’ve never been a forgiving person.

 

“They moved me to swing shift,” he explains. We stand there staring at the wreckage with the fissure between us only widening.

 

Gale is the only person I feel like I can be myself around. Everyone else, I have to protect, even my father to some degree, on days when memories and grief overwhelm him, however briefly. But Gale knows me better than anyone, and the growing list of secrets and slights hurts worse from him than my own father.

 

“You knew about my father,” I accuse. “And you didn’t tell me.”

 

“Neither did he, Katniss,” Gale states the obvious.

 

“He was trying to protect me,” I whisper, knowing the instant that the words pass my lips, that it’s the truth.

 

“Believe me, I know all about his attempts to protect you,” Gale says haughtily.

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” I snap and we turn to face one another. This isn’t the way to fix things, but I can’t seem to stop it from happening.

 

“I thought you ought to have a choice. The right to at least know what was going on and decide for yourself. Your father didn’t agree with me.”

 

“And yet you still kept me in the dark,” I say. Gale’s eyes narrow at me. “You stole that choice away from me along with him.”

 

“Because he asked me to.”

 

“Asked you or told you?” I bite out.

 

“Does it matter?” he snarls back.

 

“It does,” I insist. “Besides, when have you ever listened to anyone’s requests but your own?”

 

I wince at my own words. They’re not true. Gale has given up so much to take care of his family in the wake of his father’s death, and with the exception of this, he's always had my back. I’m not being fair, but I’m hanging over a ledge and lash out at the nearest person in a vain effort to keep myself from pitching head forward into the abyss.

 

“Who was he?” Gale seethes.

 

“You mean you don’t know all of your compatriots?” I ask. Now we’re skirting dangerous language within the fence.

 

“Your father will push him away, too, whoever he is, for the same reason he did it to me.”

 

“What are you talking about?” I shake my head, unwilling to accept that my father would so blatantly try to control my life. My choices.

 

“This,” Gale says.

 

He cups my face in the palms of his hands and leans towards me. I stare up at him, wide-eyed. Gale pauses, his lips hovering over mine for a second. I think I should run, but then he’s kissing me. I stand there, baffled, with my hands still in my pockets. Ensnared. He ends the kiss, resting his forehead on mine while I stare at him and he doesn’t look at me.

 

“I had to do that,” Gale says and then drops his hands.

 

Stunned, I stand there as he walks back down the gravel road that leads into the Seam. When I can no longer see him, I sink to the ground and hold both hands over the lower half of my face, pressing the heels of my palms into my lips as I try to figure out how I feel about the kiss. If I even liked it.

 

It's the first time a boy has ever kissed me and it leaves me bewildered. All I had time to register was the warmth of his lips and his familiar, woodsy scent. Forget about feeling anything other than shock.

 

Shouldn't I feel something?

 

I eye the trees nearby, knowing that if I dive into their welcoming depths, I will eventually find the fence. I could forget about time and boys and rebellions out there in the woods.

 

But time marches on, so I force myself to my feet and start the walk to the school, hoping Prim will figure out to head there on her own. It would take too much time for me to walk back to our house and then traverse the entire length of the Seam.

 

Curiosity pricks my mind, and although it’s probably unwise, I skirt the edges of the square, right along the line where Seam and town meet, peering through the spaces between buildings. The place is oddly empty, except a handful of Peacekeepers who are busy replacing several broken windows on the Justice Building. Scorch marks blacken the stones in a grotesquely striped pattern around one of the windows.

 

I keep walking, wondering exactly what happened here last night and how Peeta was injured, eyes trained for each glimpse of the square and any clues it might provide. Part of me is also looking for Darius, wondering if he’s alright. I hope no one knows that he lied for us. It makes me sick, thinking about what consequences he would face if what he did for us ever became known.

 

When I arrive at the school yard, the place crackles with tension. My eyes sweep over the yard, at the silent rows of children lined up and waiting for the bell to ring. It’s usually quiet most mornings, but this silence is charged, a banked fire just waiting for oxygen to blow the place wide open.

 

The distrust goes both ways.

 

I search the rows of seventeen year olds, two months away from having their worth and usefulness to the Capitol determined by a stupid, arbitrary test. That boy will probably be a miner. And that girl will likely take over her mother’s grocery shop. That girl will have at least five marriage proposals, all because her father is a Minister of Justice and marriage to her means a ticket out of this hell hole we call home. And that one…

 

My eyes finally find Peeta, leaning against a wall, surrounded by his friends, his right arm curled over his middle. He’s sweating unnaturally and even from here I can tell he’s in pain. The bandage around his head is gone. If I look awful, he looks like death should be visiting soon.

 

I try to harden my heart. Remind myself that whatever happened last night, it doesn’t change a thing about the world we live in. He saved me. I saved him. No more is owed between us. And that needs to be the end of my dealings with Peeta Mellark. Anything else would just be inviting disaster.

 

Do I want the world we live in to change?

 

The question is uninvited and intrusive, but the bell rings before I can answer it. Peeta shoves himself off the wall of the school building and then his eyes find me. For an instant, the lines on his face that tell me he’s fighting pain soften and his eyes brighten. This time, I’m the one who has to look away. I duck my head and tell myself that this is the way things have to be.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

After three full days of the entire District waiting on the edge for something to happen, a spark to set things ablaze once more, I brave the woods again. I can’t take it anymore. The awful silences and cautious looks in school. The way Merchants shut their windows or stop what they’re doing to watch me walk past with my sister on our way to and from school. It was always like this to some degree, but it seems to have grown infinitely worse. Or perhaps I’m just noticing it for the first time, too busy keeping our family alive and in one piece to see what was right in front of me.

 

Three days is more than enough time for the Peacekeepers to question people in the Seam and arrest my father and me if someone talked to them. I don’t know who told Gale, but whoever it was must not have spread the information any further than that.

 

The supposed missing Merchants the night of the protests turn out to be a ruse, as if the Peacekeepers need a reason to search the Seam. Or maybe they spread that rumor to fan the flames of fear amongst the Merchants, to strengthen the distrust between them and us.

Every day, I covertly check on Peeta. He looks worse every time. On Thursday, he doesn’t show up at school. I steer Prim and me past the bakery on our way home, wondering if he’s been arrested. There’s no sign of him in the stocks and it appears that business at the bakery continues uninterrupted. That night, I bite my nails down to the bed and my father watches me with questions in his eyes. But how can I tell him what troubles me, even though he’d probably want to know what has become of our charge.

 

I finally whisper to Prim the story of what happened the night my father and I found Peeta. I leave out the part about him kissing my hand and how it made me feel. Also the bit about Gale kissing me the morning after. I just don’t know how to articulate my thoughts where those kisses are concerned. Prim clutches my hand as I tell her. Through our connection, I can feel the slight trembling of her body in fear, but she whispers back that we’ll find a way to check in on Peeta.

 

Even our home feels suffocating these past few days. So I escape to the woods. They rejuvenate me. I pull lungfuls of air into my body and revel in the freshness of March, right on the cusp of spring. And although I’ve got nowhere to sell my game, I risk the woods for Prim’s herbs on the hope that some merchants might be willing to trade for wild greens and winter berries, things that could have easily been scavenged in small amounts from the meadows or the small sections of woods contained within the district fences. Fresh meat for my family’s table couldn’t hurt morale either, although I limit myself since I doubt I’ll have much luck trading meat. My haul is meager compared to what I normally bring in this time of year.

 

It’s a Friday, a market day. Fridays are half days at school, so I deposit my haul at home and head into school. The morning passes in a blur and before I know it, Prim and I have reached the edge of the square with my bag of berries and greens, her cheeses and carafes of goat’s milk loaded into the wagon we used to play with as children. Our father is still in the mines, but when I turned sixteen, he was able to get me a permit to pick up our family’s rations. It’s common practice in the Seam for the older children to take care of this chore so their parents can work uninterrupted shifts.

 

The streets leading to the square are clogged, though. Standing on my toes, I try to see over the heads of the people blocking our way. The crowd thickens around us as grumbled questions reverberate on the air. There’s a squeal and then an amplified voice echoes down the lanes.

 

“Entrance to the square is restricted. Form an orderly line and cease all conversations. You will be admitted to the square in small numbers.”

 

At first, no one moves, but then Peacekeepers walk through the crowd, roughly shoving people into a line. Someone elbows me in the side and I shift my load, hoping to protect my delicate cargo before it’s made useless. Prim struggles to keep the wagon from being tipped over.

 

Despite the Peacekeeper’s orders to stop talking, whispers still abound. As we watch, several Merchants walk down the lanes past us, and straight into the square. The whispering increases and one Seam man approaches a Peacekeeper, angry questions spewing forth.

 

“Now hold on a moment. We’re all here for rations, too. Why does that man get to enter before the rest of us waiting here?”

 

“Get back in line, citizen,” a Peacekeeper warns.

 

The man lifts an arm, probably to point at the Merchants bypassing the line, opens his mouth to protest. Whatever words he means to say are cut off when the Peacekeeper rams the butt of a club right into his middle. A second Peacekeeper catches the doubled over man and drags him to the square while an angry buzzing ripples through the watching crowd.

 

“Haven’t you terrorized us enough?” someone in the back of the crowd shouts, and the Peacekeeper turns to look at the rest of us.

 

“You want to step forward and join your friend in the stocks?” he shouts. His eyes sweep over us all as silence reigns. “Didn’t think so. You will wait in an orderly fashion since you can’t be trusted to gather in large numbers without spawning violence.”

 

No one points out the fact that he’s the one who resorted to violence. Instead, we wait silently, as he ordered. But his words play in my head on repeat, and I can’t help but think about the similarity to the things Peeta talked about, the stories the Capitol supposedly tells Merchants to keep them separate and aloof from the Seam. Of course, he could be referring to the protest earlier this week, but Peeta said they didn’t hurt any Peacekeepers. Which means the Peacekeepers struck the first blow.

 

“Katniss, what’s going on here?” Prim asks quietly.

 

“I don’t know, Prim,” I tell her, trying to keep the worry from my voice. “We’ll just have to be patient and wait our turn.

 

The line crawls forward and Peacekeepers walk up and down, hands resting on their pistols. Most of them have the gold stripes on their pants, and there are only a few that I recognize. No one else protests, although several more town families walk right by us from their homes into the square. 

 

The afternoon is half over when Prim and I finally reach the front of the line. Peacekeepers demand our hands. My face scrunches in confusion, but I present my fingertips and jump a little as they take a drop of blood and scan it. A second Peacekeeper rifles through my bags and Prim’s wagon load while we wait. 

 

“Proceed,” the Peacekeeper says when he’s finished his search, and Prim gives me a questioning look. I shake my head, as a warning to wait and ask questions later. If I had to guess, this is part of the backlash for the protest on Monday night.

 

“I’ll go get the rations,” I tell her. “You see what you can sell, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Prim says. 

 

I watch her as she heads towards the middle of the square where tables have been setup for vendors to sell their goods. As she blends into the crowd of blond hair and fair skin, I make my own way over to the Justice Building to join the line for rations. It’s shorter than normal, perhaps kept so by having us all corralled in the streets outside of the square. As I glance around, I notice that the square itself is relatively empty. Not nearly as many people as usual. Even here, there are large numbers of Peacekeepers patrolling. Their watchful eyes on us in unending observation, and we keep our own eyes averted to the ground.

 

I feel like a caged animal, the last of my serenity found this morning in the woods wiped away.

 

“Next,” the Justice worker calls and I finally step forward to take my turn.

 

“Everdeen, Katniss,” I tell him as I once more present my hand. His nose wrinkles, and he pricks a second finger. At this rate, I’m going to run out of fingers to pull blood from.

 

After he’s scanned my blood to verify my identity, he taps into some kind of holographic device. That done, he pulls an envelope from a box underneath his table. Removing a parchment from inside, he scans the barcode at the top and then replaces the parchment before handing the envelope over to me.

 

“What’s this?” I ask, but the man ignores me since my rations have arrived. A Peacekeeper deposits the box on the table, and the Justice worker waves me on my way.

 

“Next,” he says curtly.

 

Flustered, I grab the box and turn to leave, nearly colliding with one of Peeta’s older brothers. The oldest, I think.

 

“Excuse me,” I say, dropping my gaze and hastily walking away.

 

He doesn’t say a word, just steps around me and sticks his hand out for inspection.

 

I’m not sure what I was expecting. I don’t look back, though, instead focus on finding Prim as I try to beat away my questions about Peeta. He still wasn’t in school today.

 

When I finally find her, she’s deep in conversation with the apothecary. My heart constricts as I think of a hundred things he could be saying right now, telling her never to stop by again. That he doesn’t have the time or resources to train a Seam girl. But then Prim smiles at him and nods at whatever he’s saying.

 

“Prim,” I say as I slip behind the table she’s snagged, sliding the rations box and the white envelope into the wagon.

 

“Oh, Katniss, this is Mr. Anodune,” Prim says confidently. “Mr. Anodune, this is my sister.”

 

“Katniss,” the apothecary says, bowing his head slightly in my direction. “It’s good to finally meet you. Prim’s told me so much about you.”

 

For some reason, this irks me. It shouldn’t. He’s been teaching her, and if their mannerisms are any indication, the protests on Monday have done nothing to change his opinion. I guess I just have a hard time believing that he’s actually glad to meet me. I have Seam written all over my features, a reminder of the scandal his sister caused.

 

All I manage is a nod, even though I know it’s rude. That I could jeopardize Prim’s chances if I don’t pull myself together and act like I’m grateful to this man.

 

“Mr. Anodune was just suggesting that I spend a little more time shadowing him after school, making house calls with him or working in his shop.”

 

“She’s shown so much promise in the little time we’ve managed on lessons that I think this would be beneficial. I would pay her for her time, of course,” he says with a smile. “It would be like an apprenticeship.”

 

My eyes narrow at the apothecary as it occurs to me, he has no children.

 

“Could you give us a moment?” I ask him and grab Prim’s arm to turn her away from him before he can give a response.

 

“Katniss!” Prim says in a harsh whisper, trying to pull her arm from my grasp, but I’m stronger than she is. “You’re being rude.”

 

“Has it occurred to you that he’s training you to take over the apothecary?”

 

“Of course it has,” Prim whispers back. “What’s wrong with that? You don’t think I could do it?”

 

“No Prim, it’s not that. But if you do this, who’s going to take care of the Seam? You said he understood the Seam needed you.”

 

“He does,” Prim insists. “That’s why it’s not going to be every day. Besides, who says I won’t help Seam families if I do end up running the apothecary?”

 

My mouth drops open at her vehemence.

 

“This is something I want to do, Katniss. I thought you were behind me.”

 

I stand there and glance back at Mr. Anodune, searching for some kind of resemblance to my mother. He’s watching us, but there’s no malice in his gaze, and when he smiles at me, I see it. The curve of my mother’s mouth and the slight dimpling of her right cheek.

 

I miss her so much in that moment, standing between these two people who carry her in their looks and spirit.

 

“Okay,” I whisper.

 

“Really?” she asks excitedly. 

 

“You’ll do it anyways,” I grumble and Prim flings her arms around me for a second before hurrying off to work out details with the apothecary.

 

It’s nearly sunset when we finally manage to sell the last of the goat cheese to the baker and his oldest son. I leave the transaction to Prim, not able to trust myself not to blurt out questions about Peeta’s well-being.

 

They take one last sample of blood on our way out of the square, which seems overkill to me. Then we trudge home to get supper started before Papa gets home from the mines. Prim tells him her news almost immediately after he walks through the door. He hesitates before he congratulates her, and in the look he throws over her shoulder at me while they embrace, I can see my own fears reflected.

 

“That’s great, Prim,” he says. 

 

While Prim talks animatedly about her new job, I hand the white envelope over to my father. He looks at it and sighs before pulling out the paper. He skims the contents and wordlessly hands it to me. I hesitate for a moment, uncertain why my father seems so willing to share this with me.

 

“You're almost eighteen,” he says during a lull in Prim’s chatter. “You should know what sort of world you’re inheriting.” He moves to stand beside Prim and help her with the dinner while I read.

 

_ Saturday, March 27th. Report to Justice Building for assessment. _

 

The words blur into black streaks as I read the rest, but I get the basic idea. These are the tests President Snow mentioned. To determine who is capable of voting. I swallow and stare at my father, the bend in his shoulders. It’s a pretty good bet that most of the people who will lose their voting rights will be people who hail from the Seam.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The days crawl by in District Twelve. Prim begins her new job, her face rosy as she brings home tidy sums of coins that make my father’s face turn pale. It’s more money than he makes in two days, digging coal out of the belly of the earth. It means we won’t starve, while the tightened restrictions mean many families in the Seam are facing long stretches of hollow days. We do what we can, passing on the wealth in the form of uneven back alley trades with other Seam families.

 

I can see it in their eyes, as we conduct hushed business in the absence of the Hob. Wounded pride. While I am familiar with the feeling, I no longer feel able to simply sit back and do nothing. I am willing to hurt their pride a little if it means helping them survive. A Merchant boy once taught me that it’s okay to need a little help when you’re at your lowest.

 

My father and I return to the woods for short amounts of time, returning with less game than we normally would at this time of year, but the streets of Twelve are now clogged with Peacekeepers bearing gold stripes on their pants. It’s not safe to prance around with a bag stuffed with wild game anymore. Once, I catch Darius watching me from down the road. We haven’t spoken since before that morning in the back alley ways, when he covered for me and Peeta. Before Darius can approach me, I look away, unwilling to do anything that might place suspicion on him.

 

In the safety of the trees beyond the fence, I ask my father about the protests he engaged in when he was younger. He talks of walls of mine workers who refused to enter the lifts unless wages were raised. A Head Peacekeeper who was fond of skipping the lesser punishments and handing out the maximum punishment first. The lull in protests when that Peacekeeper died of an aneurism, and his replacement, Cray, who is our current Head Peacekeeper, seemed content to look the other way where certain crimes were concerned.

 

“Most people thought Cray had his heart set on commanding in a larger district,” my father explains. “And slacked off out of spite when he was assigned here instead. I don’t believe that for a second. I think he wanted to be here, where he could drink and indulge in all his vices without interference from the Capitol.”

 

All his vices. I shudder at the reminder of his more unsavory habits. It’s not unusual for there to be a line of girls outside the Peacekeeper barracks at night, even after curfew, hoping for money in exchange for their bodies. Cray would pick his for the night, and then several of the other Peacekeepers would offer for the remaining girls. I thought about it once or twice, when we were at our most desperate. But I knew how to hunt. So I did that instead. 

 

“I expect his feet are finally being held to the fire,” my father says about Cray. Once I have him warmed up, I ask about Gale and the most recent protests. My father doesn’t even try to deflect my accusations.

 

“You’ve every reason to be angry with me, Katniss,” my father says with a sigh. He settles against a tree and motions for me to sit as well. “When your mother and I married, we knew we wanted a family. Happy, hopeful children. A promise for a better future. Cray had just arrived and things were looking up in the District, at least to a small degree. When you were very young, there were a series of supply disruptions from other districts. The Capitol blamed them on natural disasters, the weather, a pox that spread through two districts. Many of us here believed that it was all a lie. That the truth was the districts were rising up. 

 

“Well, that started the talk in the mines again, but your mother didn’t want me to have any part if it. She said we had a family to look after now, and my participation put all of us at risk. Foolishly, I didn’t listen. I thought that in rising up, I was doing what was best for my family. This,” he waves back towards the district. “This is no life. No way to live. And it wasn’t the world I wanted for you or Prim.

 

“I paid for my beliefs with my leg while others paid with their lives, and then your mother died, leaving me the only one you and Prim had. I guess in a way, once she was gone, I adopted your mother’s fears.”

 

I stare at the grass, still unready to forgive him completely.

 

“I was worried Gale would charm you with talk of rebellions and overthrowing the Capitol and that I’d lose you, too. He’s such a hothead, and while a lot of his reasoning makes sense, he tends to rush headlong into a fight without thinking through the consequences of his actions. Who he might hurt. I didn’t want you blinded by that kind of passionate fire. 

 

“Sometimes, I wonder if that’s what happened to your mother. That she married me blindly, not knowing what would happen as a result and…” Papa swallows and changes directions. “I couldn’t stand the thought of having to watch you flogged or hung, and I suddenly understood your mother’s hesitance to make a stand.”

 

“So why did you let it go when Prim walked out that night? Why change your mind?”

 

My father smiles and then looks up at the trees. He points and I follow his finger. A mockingjay. The bastardized offspring of Capitol mutations and mockingbirds. My father begins to sing, a low song of love and loss. The bird tilts his head and several more gather on the branches. After a few verses, my father stops singing and the birds pick up the tune. It’s haunting in the way it layers over itself.

 

“Because despite my fears, my beliefs have not changed,” my father whispers. “This isn’t the world I want for you. And I don’t think it’s the world either of you wants. The sad fact remains that the only way to make the world the way we want it, is to act, not to sit on our haunches, quaking in fear.”

 

His words knock around my mind for several days. But he’s right. This isn’t the world that I want, although I still don’t see how protesting will change that. All that’s changed is the harsher conditions we now live under. I’m still not even speaking to Peeta, although he has returned to school. Prim told me that one of the house calls she made with Mr. Anodune was to the bakery. Peeta’s stitches kept coming out and infection took hold for several days. Although Peeta apparently managed to hide the injuries that were the source of his illness from his family, there was no fooling Prim or Mr. Anodune.

 

The apothecary continued the deception. Lied to Peeta’s family. Claimed it was a stomach flu and insisted Peeta be kept in a room by himself while he healed to keep it from spreading. The whole thing just confused me. Why would the apothecary lie to the Mellark family about something like that and not turn Peeta in?

 

The first time after the protests that I go back to the woods without my father, I stop first at the rocks overlooking the valley where Gale and I would meet. He’s been avoiding me inside the district, and frankly, I’ve been avoiding him. But I don’t want to lose his friendship anymore than I want to lose my father’s trust. While I still seethe a little at the way they both tried to control my life, I’ve found a way to forgive my father, who was so broken by the loss of my mother, he tried to become her in her absence. But a bird will still be a bird, even if you take away its wings.

 

Didn’t I do the same thing in the way I treat Prim? Try to replace Mama? Singing lullabies to her, combing and braiding her hair, holding her hand as we walk through the District. Soothing bad dreams. And undoubtedly, Gale tried to take his father’s place after the explosion in the mines.

 

So I am surprised when I find Gale waiting for me. He stands and heads into the woods, launching immediately into a discussion about the snare lines as I’m left jogging to keep up with him. I wait for him to mention the kiss, but he doesn’t. We move through the morning pretending it never happened. So I try to let it go. At least he’s not pushing the issue.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Two weeks after the protests, Prim comes home and hands me a folded piece of parchment, a sly smile on her face. I tuck it into my pocket and wait until I have a few minutes to myself while she’s bathing and my father is next door talking to Haymitch Abernathy, one of the men he works with at the mines. Then, I pull out the paper and unfold it, uncertain what I’m going to find.

 

_ Katniss, _

 

_ I meant it when I said I wanted to see you again. Well, that hasn’t been easy to accomplish, given the circumstances, so I decided to try this route. If it’s not alright, then simply don’t answer. I’ll get the hint.  _

 

_ Peeta _

 

He sent me a letter. I sit on my bed, stunned. Also a little worried about how this might affect Prim. Carrying letters between the two of us. As long as we don’t write anything treasonous, it should be okay, right?

 

I freeze and stare at the paper in my hands. I’m not actually considering writing back, am I? The idea of carrying on a clandestine friendship through letters with Peeta Mellark leaves me shaking in fear. So many things could go wrong.

 

But it’s more than fear I feel as I reread his words. There’s a fair amount of longing as well. Although, longing for what, I’m not sure. Maybe just for someone to talk to, who doesn’t already have expectations pressing down on my shoulders.

 

When Prim climbs out of the tub, pink and freshly washed, I comb and braid her hair while she talks about her work as a healer. Since I’ve not been hunting as often, I’ve taken over many of the tasks to care for Lady. I miss my woods, and as I listen to the joy in Prim’s voice, I long for just a small sliver of that joy for myself. It’s selfish, but as Prim talks, I make up my mind. I decide to act instead of sitting on my haunches and quaking in fear.

 

_ Peeta, _

 

_ I would hardly call writing letters a way of seeing me again. I’m glad you’re feeling better.  _

 

_ Katniss _

 

I scribble the missive on the same parchment, in the blank space underneath Peeta’s words. When the ink dries, I tear off the small section and give my short note to Prim, for her to pass along the next time she’s in town, agonizing over each word of it. I’ve never been good with words.

 

I don’t have to wait long for the next one, although this time, Prim hands it to me in front of our father. He eyes the folded note and the blush on my face, and with a sigh, cautions me to be careful. I nod and barricade myself in the bedroom to read it.

 

_ Katniss, _

 

_ I’m glad that I’m feeling better, too. It wasn’t much fun sitting in bed all day, listening to my mother berate my father downstairs in the bakery. Perhaps it’s wrong to tell you this about them, to share their private lives, but everyone in the district seems to know that my mother isn’t the kindest of souls. That my parents were never in love with one another. _

 

_ It wasn’t all bad, though. I spent a good deal of time drawing, enjoying the fresh scent of spring rain brought to me on breezes through the open windows. Plus I didn’t have to listen to math lectures. I’m not very good with numbers. Which means I’d be terrible at running a business. Good thing that’s not my fate, right? _

 

_ And you’re right, this isn’t getting to see you again. But I’ll take what I can get. Your words made me smile. I look forward to more, if you want. Tell me, what’s your favorite color? _

 

_ Peeta _

 

_ P.S. Your sister is bossy when she’s in healer mode. Does that run in the family? _

 

I would normally take offense at Peeta’s last words, except he’s drawn a rough sketch in the corner of the paper. Of Prim. She’s head bent with a look of concentration on her face, a few wisps of hair escaping her braid. Her presence is both commanding and gentle in that image. Beautiful. Somehow, as I think back on the way I ordered him about the streets as we were headed to his home, I know that Peeta didn’t mean it as an insult.

 

_ Peeta, _

 

_ Where’d you learn to draw like that? My favorite color is green. What’s yours?  _

 

_ Why’d your parents get married if they were never in love? _

 

_ And yes, all of the women in my family are bossy when they know they’re right. Which is most of the time. _

 

_ Katniss _

 

It’s a foolish thing to do. Exposing my sister to pass notes back and forth between me and Peeta. She must be stopping in at the bakery or he at the apothecary nearly every day. Sometimes I write quick notes when I think of something I want to ask him or say to him, even though I haven’t heard back from him yet. He must do the same thing because our notes overlap and our conversation is somewhat disjointed. It makes me anxious, but no matter how many times I tell myself to stop the nonsense, I can’t seem to do it. 

 

Every time I read back over Peeta’s description of the scent of fresh rain on the breeze, I can’t help but smile. I can smell the rain. Feel the breeze, even see the lace curtains that adorn so many Merchant apartment windows as they flutter in the breeze, absorbing the rainwater in softly spreading patches, brought to life in Peeta’s words.

 

His eager questions at the end tug at my heart in a way I can’t understand. I only know that I want to hear more from him. So I continue to answer, tucking the notes from him beneath a loose floorboard in our home, and eagerly awaiting his responses.

 

_ Katniss, _

 

_ I really don’t know why my parents got married. When I was five, my father told me he wanted to marry someone else. At the time, I never thought to ask why he married my mother instead. I just wanted to know why he couldn’t marry the woman he loved. Turns out, she was in love with another man and married him. Now I don’t ask why he married Mother because we’re all miserable enough in this family.  _

 

_ That’s enough of the depressing talk. My favorite color is orange. Soft orange. Like a sunset. _

 

_ I’ve been drawing since I can remember. Chalk drawings on the stones of the square. Hasty renditions on the corners of school work that landed me in trouble. Drawing is my escape. Maybe it’s my weakness, the need to scribble lines on a page and record the beauty around us. So often it feels like there isn’t much of it in the District, so I try to savor it whenever I find it, to remind myself during the darker days that there is always beauty if you’re willing to look. Can I share it with you? Is that allowed? _

 

_ Here’s a piece of it, to help you decide.  _

 

_ Your friend, _

_ Peeta _

 

His answer about his parents saddens me, although I can’t say I’m too surprised. I try to imagine what that must be like, living in such a home. Mine was always so full of love and laughter. At least until my mother died.

 

All of that is eclipsed, though, by the sketch that winds across the bottom of the note and up half of one side. He drew a sprig of apple blossoms for me. Glorious and new, several blooms in different stages. I can’t stop staring at them. Or the words at the bottom.  _ Your friend. _ I suppose that’s what we are, in a strange way.

 

_ Peeta, _

 

_ I’ll allow it.  _

 

_ I miss the woods. I keep my time in them short these days, and I long for more time with the trees. Have you seen it? Have you taken that risk, too? _

 

_ Katniss _

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

On another market day, Prim and I move more swiftly to the square and manage to score a place further up the line. This will give us more time to trade after I’ve picked up our rations. Shortly, after we make it past the check-in point, I catch a glimpse of Peeta across the square, carrying large sacks of flour from District 9 and sugar from District 11, crates of eggs and fresh milk from District 10, into the bakery. I look away before Prim catches me staring, but I wonder if today would be a good day to talk to him. He hasn’t sent another letter through Prim for a day or two. I’m worried maybe I said too much in my last note.

 

Once again, Prim secures a table for trades while I huddle in my jacket as I wait in line for rations. When there are only two people in front of me, a fight breaks out in the line beside mine.

 

“What the hell is this?” a Seam man asks the Justice worker.

 

“Your rations, citizen, and watch your tone. It behoves you to show some respect.”

 

“Respect?” the man asks, his entire frame stiff. “This oil can is punctured. It’s leaking all over the foodstuffs. How am I supposed to feed this to my family?”

 

“Not my problem,” the Justice worker drawls. “Next!”

 

“You--” the man lunges, but the woman behind him in line grabs his arms and swings him away from the table. In doing so, they collide with the Merchant waiting in line behind her.

 

“It’s not worth it, Wesley. Just go. We’ll figure something out for your family,” the woman whispers as the Merchant man sputters indignantly. He shoves Wesley away from him.

 

“Keep your filthy hands away from me!” the man declares.

 

Wesley shrugs the woman off of him, adjusts his jacket and the red scarf wrapped around his neck, still holding the box of spoiled food and oil. His face creased in fury. With a last glare at the Merchant man, Wesley tilts his chin up and walks away from the rations lines.

 

I swallow back my own anger and keep my eyes forward. Once he opened to me, my father talked frequently about the past and the protests of his youth. He explained to me that the Capitol first cut wages drastically when they began distributing rations. They claimed it was a better system, although my father is convinced they did it to make the people beholden to the government. Instead of paying the workers enough to care for their families, the Capitol paid in pennies and handed out insufficient rations. Then they could pat themselves on the backs as the saviors of the districts, of the entire nation.

 

But a savior wouldn’t cheat their charges out of a chance at survival. And that’s what I just witnessed. It’s what I’ve witnessed most of my life.

 

When it’s finally my turn, the Justice worker hands over our rations then points towards several boards sitting off to the sides. 

 

“Check notice boards to determine voting eligibility before you leave. Next!”

 

I shift the box in my grip and walk over to the boards, quickly skimming the list until I find it underneath tall block letters proclaiming: INELIGIBLE.  _ Everdeen, Sage _ typed in bold black letters that slant to the right. I stare at my father’s name as frigid cold spreads through me. My father’s a smart man and a good father. I can’t imagine what kind of test they asked him to pass, and I wonder if he was always doomed to fail just by nature of which block in District Twelve he was born on. Would my mother still be able to vote if she were alive?

 

I turn on my heel and nearly collide with someone, manage to sidestep just in time, although I don’t miss the grumbling about “rude as shit Seam brats.”

 

I find Prim, and stand silently beside her as she sells her wares. The day is overcast, befitting of my mood. As the light begins to fade, we pack up and head home. 

 

We’re less than a block into the Seam when a scream rends the air. It raises the hair on my neck in its terror and anguish. As we round the corner, we find the source. A young girl, maybe sixteen years old, claws at an old man, spewing forth incoherent nonsense and screams, pointing at something in the dark alley.

 

Peacekeepers swarm the area and quickly take the thrashing girl into custody.

 

“Nothing to see here,” one Peacekeeper announces with a harsh yell. “Back to your homes!”

 

As Prim and I pass by, I crane my neck and catch a glimpse of a body lying in the alley, a knife protruding from his back. Prim gasps and covers her mouth, but I steer her away.

 

“There’s nothing we can do,” I tell her. I don’t tell her that I recognize the man, and the red scarf. It’s Wesley, the Seam man who received spoiled rations today.

 

I tell my father about the voting. Although he doesn’t appear surprised, he does step outside for a few minutes. There aren’t many places a person can go to be alone in the Seam, so my sister and I don’t follow him.

 

It’s while he’s outside that Prim hugs me, her breathing harsh, and I know she’s thinking about the murdered man we saw, just like I am. Who killed him? Peacekeepers? The Merchant man he collided with in line? Someone else entirely? I rest my cheek on Prim’s hair and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to squeeze out the questions along with the tears. Because I have no answers. And I probably never will.

 

When Prim pulls back, she wipes her nose and hands me a parchment along with a tentative smile. I stare at it, expecting the paper to explode in my hands, and wondering how on earth I ever thought I could be friends with a Merchant boy. We’re not friends. We can’t be friends. I pocket the note and vow to burn it after Prim is asleep.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

No one is tried for the murder of Wesley, the man with the red scarf. The Peacekeepers don’t even ask questions about it, and two days later, an armored train arrives at the station, sending whispers through the district. That afternoon, the Peacekeepers tear through the Seam once more, under the supervision of a tall man, wearing the uniform of a Head Peacekeeper with the addition of the gold stripes down his legs, radiating power and contempt from his ice blue eyes.

 

I’ve always thought of blue eyes as being warm and kind. Loving. It’s the color of the sky, my mother’s and Prim’s eyes. Peeta’s eyes. But this man’s eyes are frigid and empty. He announces that his name is Romulus Thread in a way that suggests he won’t be letting us forget it anytime soon. I briefly wonder what happened to Cray, but don’t have time to spare him sympathy for whatever fate befell him as Thread and his squads rip through the Seam.

 

When they search the Hawthorne house, the Head Peacekeeper demands to see receipts from Hazelle. She works cleaning homes for the wealthier people in the District, even takes in laundry to supplement their income. In the winters, her hands get so dry that they crack and bleed. My mother, and then Prim, always made a salve for her hands, to at least mitigate the damage and prevent infection.

 

Unable to produce sufficient evidence of her income, Hazelle faced the Head Peacekeeper as he ordered her arrested. Gale opened his mouth and ended up knocked on the head, dragged to the square and thrown in the stocks. At least Hazelle wasn’t taken with him.

 

I didn’t see it happen, heard the story from Leevy at school the day after. When school releases, I brave the square, just to see for myself. As I catch a glimpse of Gale, I am swamped with guilt. We’ve barely spoken since the kiss. All we talk about now is hunting, while we’re in the woods. He hasn’t even let loose with a rant against the Capitol.

 

“We should do something,” I whisper to Prim. She nods and we stop by our home only long enough to gather what we need before we visit Hazelle with a fresh jar of salve for her hands.

 

“Have you been to see him?” Prim asks, and Hazelle shakes her head.

 

“They forbid us to,” Vick, the third oldest Hawthorne boy says angrily. “Said it was part of his punishment.”

 

“Vick, please go make the laundry deliveries. See if anyone will use our services today. And watch your temper,” Hazelle says softly. Vick opens his mouth to argue, but a swift look from Hazelle sends him out the door in a hurry, several baskets with clean laundry in his arms.

 

“Thank you girls,” Hazelle says calmly once he’s gone. “I know Gale misses you a great deal, Katniss. He cherished the times you used to spend together. Things have just been so different these past few weeks.”

 

I shift uncomfortably on my chair at her words. I look away and fight back conflicting emotions. All those years he spent with other girls, and now one kiss is supposed to convince me that I was somehow special to Gale. I suppose people always assumed we’d end up together, since we were pretty much inseparable unless my father was around. But all of that has changed lately. It’s like I don’t exist to him anymore and here his mother is trying to tell me that Gale cherishes me. I don’t feel cherished.

 

“There must be something we can do for him,” Prim fills the void left by my silence. Her words bring me instant shame at my thoughts. Gale is still my friend, my hunting partner when Papa isn’t there, and I shouldn’t be this angry with him.

 

“Thank you again,” Hazelle whispers as we leave her. “But there’s really nothing either of you can do.”

 

Except there is.

 

The only way a person in the stocks eats is if someone brings them food. The Peacekeepers won’t do it, especially not under Thread. So Prim and I walk into the square, armed with a stew and some drop biscuits from the flour rations. They’re coarse and tasteless, but better than nothing.

 

“Hey, Catnip,” Gale says with his old familiar smile. The one he used to give me before things went sour between him and my Dad.

 

“Hey, Gale,” I say as Prim starts pulling things from the basket we brought. “How long?”

 

“Only until tomorrow morning,” Gale says. “Surprised you came to see me.”

 

“Hush,” Prim says and forces a spoonful of stew into his mouth while I place a pair of gloves on his hands. His skin is so cold, chapped from exposure. 

 

“Thanks,” he says after he swallows.

 

We don’t talk much while Prim spoon feeds him and I force him to drink some tea from the flask we brought. I wonder how I could let the things he’s kept from me get between us. Maybe Gale was wrong to keep things from me, but I didn’t have to hold a grudge for so long. That’s when I notice the blankets wrapped around him.

 

“Where’d you get the blankets?” I ask. Then I tease him, to help lighten the mood. “Secret admirer?”

 

“No idea,” Gale says between bites. “Someone came up behind me right after dark the first night, draped them over me and secured them. Might’ve frozen to death if they hadn’t.”

 

The way Gale says it, you can tell he resents the gift. I think he should just be grateful someone felt enough compassion for him to keep him from freezing to death. He’s in the middle of the square. Not exactly friendly territory for a Seam boy. 

 

I stare at the blanket. It’s worn, but made of a soft fleece, double layered for insulation. I look around the square, hoping for some clue as to the generous person. All the windows above the stores are devoid of life. No one watches us, and the few Merchants I see moving around inside their shops, studiously avoid looking outside at the instruments of torture decorating their front steps. My eyes land on the bakery, just off to the the left behind Gale. On the corner.

 

A strange thought occurs to me, and I focus on getting Gale to drink instead of on what my theory means. I remind myself to ask Peeta in my next note to him.

 

My next note. Sudden shame swamps over me. For never answering Peeta. 

 

“Thanks, Prim,” Gale says as she screws the lid back on the pot once the stew is all gone. “And you, too, Catnip.”

 

I lean down and press a kiss to his cheek, hoping he’ll know all the words I can’t seem to say. How essential he’s been to me the last few years as I dealt with a drifting father and the loss of my mother. How I feel stronger and more capable because of him. And how I never want to lose his friendship. As I pull back, he whispers to me.

 

“I love you.”

 

My heart sinks. I blink and swallow down a lump in my throat. Prim discreetly turns away from us, giving us a private moment.

 

“I know,” I say, and I watch as his eyes cloud over with hurt. It’s an awful thing to say, but I can’t say what he wants me to say. Of course I love Gale, but I don’t know if I can love him the way he wants me to. He’ll only end up hating me when I inevitably disappoint him.

 

“Get going before you miss curfew,” Gale mumbles, and I try to protest, but Prim grasps my hand and starts to pull me away from him.

 

“Come on, Katniss,” she says in a strange tone. I want to remind her that curfew isn’t for another two hours. That we have more than enough time. But my feet follow her and my shoulders bow. As we finally leave the square, I slump against her and she wraps an arm around me. I don’t know what to do anymore. We’ve barely made it two blocks from the square when new indignities find us.

 

“Is this scum bothering you, Miss?” A graveled voice asks. Prim’s frame turns rigid against mine as she halts and it takes me a moment to realize that the unfamiliar Peacekeeper blocking our path is talking to her. About me.

 

“She’s my sister,” I tell the man in a snappy tone.

 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the Peacekeeper says, grabbing my arm and tearing us apart. “Is this piece of trash bothering you, Miss?”

 

“No!” Prim protests softly, her eyes fixed on me and the look of rage and suppressed pain I know I’m sporting. “We’re sisters!”

 

“Stop threatening her,” the Peacekeeper snarls at me and shoves me to the ground before turning back on Prim. His tone now softens, as though bribing a frightened bird out of a tree. “I’ll protect you, Miss. Whatever lies or threats she’s heaped on you to get you to lie, she won’t be able to carry them out.”

 

Suddenly, Prim’s spine straightens as she carries her slight frame at her full height. Indignation lights in her blue eyes, making the Peacekeeper take a step back.

 

“My name is Primrose Everdeen. And you just shoved my sister, Katniss Everdeen, to the ground. We live in the Seam with our father and the memory of our deceased mother. If you would kindly help my sister back to her feet, then we will be on our way home.”

 

I lay there, gaping at Prim, a foreign sort of thrill taking hold in my blood. Pride. The shock of the Peacekeeper’s assumptions has finally worn off as I push away his outstretched hand and pull myself to my feet.

 

“We’d be more than happy to submit our identification, if you need it,” I say as Prim links our arms together.

 

“No need,” the Peacekeeper grumbles. “I don’t know why anyone would lie about living in that cesspool.”

 

He marches off and Prim and I walk sedately home without a word spoken between us.

 

That night, I toss and turn in my bed, wondering what could possibly be done to change things. It feels so hopeless, my choices all bleak. Do nothing and continue to live in fear, in a world where I would never want to bring children to life only to struggle. Write letters to Peeta, which although it makes me feel better, does absolutely nothing to change things. Or stand in the square with Gale the next time there’s a protest and hopefully strengthen the numbers. Maybe if enough of us stand up to the Capitol, they won’t be able to ignore us.

 

I fabricate an excuse to visit the Hawthorne’s alone the next day, and while Gale rubs some of Hazelle’s salve onto his chafed wrists, I tell him to meet me at the remains of the Hob before his shift at the mines.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

We wait for the spark. Gale says it’s because everyone is afraid. Even the Peacekeepers we know look the other way as homes are torn to shreds for no reason other than place of birth and occupation. The stocks and even the whipping post see a steady stream of customers. The lines outside the Peacekeeper barracks grow. Women, older girls, and eventually, even a few boys.

 

Shortly after I tell Gale that I want to fight, to make all kinds of trouble for the Peacekeepers and the Capitol, he hands me some black yarn. I don’t know what to do with it, but Prim’s nimble fingers quickly darn it into a mask. Almost exactly like the one Peeta wore the night my father and I found him in the streets.

 

When she hands it to me, something inside crinkles, and I pull out a piece of parchment. Worn and folded.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I found it in your pants when I was doing laundry and I...I read it. I didn’t know if it was important and once I started I…” she trails off as I unfold the paper, my heart thudding dully in my chest as I am greeted with Peeta’s now familiar handwriting. The note I was going to burn. I’d forgotten it completely.

 

“It’s okay,” I say because I don’t know what else to say. I leave Prim in the bedroom and go into the back, to the small plot of land where we keep Lady. I hoist myself up on the fence and tilt my head back to look at the stars for a moment before angling the letter to catch the light escaping from our windows and read.

 

_ Katniss, _

 

_ I have only braved the woods a handful of times. In autumn, when the demand for apple tarts, cakes, muffins, cookies, and pies is higher, I sometimes slip beneath the fence to gather apples from the trees that grow along the western edge of the District. The lone apple tree behind our bakery doesn’t produce nearly enough to meet our demand.  _

 

_ Once, I got distracted in the majesty of the woods, the fresh scents, the pure beauty, the wondrous sounds of birdsong. So breathtaking and alien to me that I forgot about curfew. I had to run to make it home in time, and nearly lost all of the apples I had gathered. But I never forget how wild, untamed, and utterly perfect those woods appear to me. I wanted to hold them and know them at the same time that I wanted to run away from them in terror. _

 

_ I imagine that it’s different for you, someone who is intimately familiar with the woods. I’d like to see them through your eyes. Just once. Do you feel the pulse of them in your blood? Would you be willing to take me back there one day? _

 

_ Your friend, _

_ Peeta _

 

I sit there, stunned. Staring longingly at the woods he’s so faithfully brought to life on the second page. An entire sketch devoted to the trees, the birds, and us. There is Peeta. He’s drawn himself propped against a tree, sketchbook on his lap as he looks out into the woods. And me. Perched in a tree with my bow, eyes vigilant. How, I wonder, does he bring these things to life so exactly? And how, with just a few words from me, does he know the best way to send my heart tripping in joy?

 

And suddenly, I’m wishing not for a rebellion or a black yarn mask, but for this. What this picture represents. A quiet world where Peeta and I could safely be friends. Where Peacekeepers don’t assume that I am a threat to my sister. Where a man’s murder does not go ignored just because he works in a mine. A world with no lines dividing my people.

 

After I sit there staring at the world Peeta has created for us until my back and legs ache from holding myself upright on the fence, I carefully fold the paper and tuck it inside my shirt, close to my heart. Then I return to my home, the two room shack and the harsh reality that such a world will probably never exist.

 

Still, I feel that I owe Peeta some form of answer. By now, he’s waited so long for a response. Perhaps he’s already decided that I want nothing more to do with him. But tomorrow is another market day, and odds are, I will see him there.

 

I had decided to stop this, that it couldn’t be. But then I read the letter, telling myself it wouldn’t hurt to read what Peeta had to say before I finally torched the note. I can’t stop thinking about it, though. His words play in my head, a mockingjay song overlapping and spreading through the woods like the bright fingers of sunrise.

 

Excusing the splurge, I light a candle and sit at the kitchen table while my father and Prim sleep, agonizing over how to answer Peeta. I try several different approaches, scratching out each one until I capitulate and call it good enough. In the faint light from the candle, I reread what I’ve written.

 

_ Peeta, _

 

_ I love the drawing. It’s beautiful. I wish I could think of better words to describe what it means to me, but words have never been my gift.  _

 

_ As for your question, I think we both know that we don’t live in a world where these things are possible, or even acceptable. You once mentioned that the Capitol spreads lies to keep Merchant and Seam at odds. I am curious what exactly they could say to cause such a rift when Merchants live with us, interact with us on a daily basis. What kind of hatred could erase any real good will that exists between us? And how are you immune to it? I assume you are, although it’s risky and foolish of me to do so. _

 

_ Your friend, _

_ Katniss _

 

I resolve to hand this one to him myself. I won’t put Prim at risk with such virulent words aimed at our government. She’s already put targets on herself by standing up for me with that Peacekeeper today.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It’s easier than I expect it to be. Once more, the baker stops by our table in the square to trade with Prim for goat cheese. This time, it’s Peeta who accompanies him. Our eyes dance around one another, but are continuously drawn back for brief moments before skittering back to the corners of the square, the rooftops. Blue to grey magnets carrying the burden of secrets. I wonder if he is ashamed to think of me as a friend, although it was he who first added that salutation to his notes. 

 

Our hands brush as I transfer the case of goat cheese to his arms, the note tucked inside. Although not a word is spoken between us, I can see the spark when he spots the parchment, the hope in his blue eyes when his gaze meets mine once more. Relief. I read relief in his expression and suddenly, I am the one who is ashamed.

 

Ashamed for ignoring him so long, for beginning to believe that he would welcome the freedom from our exchanges, even though he’s given me no reason to believe that. I can’t help but watch them as they leave, head back towards the bakery. I only look away when Prim nudges me free from my reverie.

 

As the evening winds down, we pack our things back in the wagon and leave the square. It’s only then that I notice the palpable strain in the air. So preoccupied with the treasonous note I carried and the possibility of seeing Peeta up close again that I was oblivious to it. It’s in the whispers and the heated looks thrown across the street, the one where Seam and Town meet. I imagine it as an invisible thread, wavering in the air, a boundary not to be crossed.

 

Prim tucks closer into me as we walk. The thread stretches longer, thinner. Until it snaps.

 

With no warning or preamble, a pair of boys shout and shove. A girl cries out and I watch as she crumples to the ground under the sudden onslaught of fists, grasping onto her blonde hair to protect her head. I know those boys. The Keagan twins. They live two blocks from us. They’re only fifteen.

 

“Go home,” I tell Prim and shove the wagon handle into her hands, sick at the sight of blood splattering on the stones. She tries to protest, but I yell at her. “Go home NOW, Prim!”

 

Shouting has begun. Someone has called for the Peacekeepers. I push my way through the crowd and grasp the older boy by his collar, surprise is my ally as I yank him off his victim.

 

“Haven’t you had enough of their hatred?” I say to him as the younger boy finally ceases pummeling the girl. She whimpers softly, but for now, I ignore her, focused on making these boys understand. “You’ll just make it worse for us all! Get out of here now before I change my mind and hand you over!”

 

They scamper in shock, and most of the crowd disperses as I turn to the girl, kneel in front of her. She’s still protecting her head, her arms obscuring her facial features.

 

“They’re gone,” I soothe, but she still flinches at my touch. “Come on, I’ll get you to the apothecary. He can take care of you.”

 

She shakes her head, her body quaking as she moans lowly.

 

“I was just delivering shoes,” she says. And now I know who this is. Delly Cartwright, the cobbler’s daughter. “I was just t-t-trying to h-h-help.”

 

I don’t understand her words and am so focused on trying to figure them out that I don’t hear him approach. My body jolts, prepares to fight as I whirl to face the person placing a heavy hand on my shoulder.

 

“Dells,” Peeta coos as he kneels beside me and scoops her into his arms. He stands and hoists her up, holds her tight against his chest as he looks at me. I can’t read his expression and it troubles me. I don’t want him to turn, to change his mind, based on what those two boys did.

 

“Peeta, I--”

 

“Thank you,” he says and hurriedly walks back towards town with Delly cradled in his arms, her crying quietly against his neck. My stomach plummets with every step that he takes.

 

The sounds of boots marching towards me brings sense rushing back in, and I blindly race down Seam streets. I pause near the Williams house to catch my breath. When my heart is no longer hammering inside my chest, I walk the rest of the way home, silencing Prim with a wave of my hand when I walk inside. I don’t want to talk about what happened just yet.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_ Katniss, _

 

_ Delly is fine. A little shaken, but fine. She had gone to deliver a pair of shoes, second-hand because she was uncertain how Seam families would accept her charity. She had seen a girl, about six or seven years old, walking barefoot in the square today. Always tender hearted and too sweet for her own good, she had taken the shoes, intending to gift them anonymously to the girl. Instead, those two boys witnessed her leaving them on the doorstep and assumed she meant the family ill will. _

 

_ Thank you for interfering. I’ve been good friends with Delly since we were kids, and she’s one of my closest friends. We used to tell people that we were brother and sister.  _

 

_ Truthfully, I had headed into the Seam to try and talk to you. Your last note left me feeling uneasy, and I wanted to clarify a few things. I was impatient, but I can’t regret it. Not since my impatience meant that we were able to get Delly to the apothecary and then home before anything worse happened to her. _

 

_ As for your questions, I’d like to think that I am immune to the hatred the Capitol pours in our ears. Sometimes, like yesterday afternoon, I am not so sure. A part of me wanted to go after the boys who hurt Delly. That vicious part of me wanted to find them and tear them apart for what they did to her. She’s never been anything but kind to everyone she’s known. _

 

_ That part of me terrifies the other part. The rational one that donned a mask and stood shoulder to shoulder with people I am expected to hate, because I know that I have no real reason to hate them. The rational part of me knows that those two boys have been fed a steady diet of hate, fear, and oppression, until the only way they can live with themselves is to lash out at the nearest oppressor, either real or perceived. _

 

_ You asked, and you have a right to know, so I can only apologize for this. The second page is filled with things that are not my words, but a transcript of several news stories my family watched tonight as we ate our supper. Mandatory viewing, per the Capitol’s orders. I’ve heard that the Seam is often without electricity in the evenings, and it has finally occurred to me that this must be why. Or at least how they’ve managed to broadcast to homes in Town and not the Seam, leaving the Seam in both the literal and figurative dark. It’s gotten a lot more...cruel in the past few weeks. Ever since the night of the protests when you and your father helped me. _

 

_ Please don’t despise me after you read this. I don’t believe a word of it. Not even after today. I don’t want them controlling my life this way. Telling me who to trust and who to fear. I won’t be a vessel to sow the hatred they so clearly want to spread. Whatever sick game they’re playing with our lives, I don’t want to be a piece in it. _

 

_ Your friend, _

_ Peeta _

 

I read the hateful words on the second page and shake in anger, suddenly understanding the whispers, the looks. The way so many Town mothers clutch their children to them when a Seam man walks past. Rage fills me and I wonder how we could ever move past such blatant and horrible lies. Rage curls within me until it consumes me and I bleed it out onto a page.

 

_ Peeta, _

 

_ Easy to say that from behind a mask or a set of decent walls with three full meals a day and no fear of being dragged to the whipping post for no reason. _

 

_ Katniss _

 

I regret the note almost the instant I hand it to Prim in the morning, racing to the woods to escape, but the fence hums the chorus of a thousand angry wasps, alive with electricity for the first time in months, and I realize how utterly trapped we all are. 

 

On my way back home, I catch faint sounds that seem out of place and halt to listen carefully. When I hear the soft sniffles and low keening again, I follow the sounds around the corners to find a girl holding her knees to her chest and rocking as she sits behind a shack, deep in the Seam. Her golden hair is falling in pieces from her braid, an elaborate style that starts at one ear and wraps diagonally around her head to drape over the opposite shoulder. I know this girl from school, although I can’t remember her name. She graduated two years ago and is supposed to marry a clerk in the Justice Hall.

 

At first, I think of Delly, and wonder if this girl encountered similar backlash, but her face, although pale, is free of any bruises or marks. Her clothes are relatively clean, if somewhat askew. Then she looks up at me, her blue eyes hollow and empty. Cheeks thinner than I recall. And she draws the handful of money clutched in her fist closer to her breast. Protecting it. The paper crinkling loudly in the quiet morning.

 

Long lines outside the Peacekeeper barracks.

 

I suddenly feel ill and slowly approach the girl, sitting beside her in the dirt as she inches her foot away from me.

 

“It’s a bit chilly this morning for a walk,” I say softly, careful not to touch her as she continues to rock beside me. I wonder if this was her first time standing in line outside the barracks. Was it her first time with a man. I fight back the rising bile and fury in my throat as I think of it. Not even Merchant born girls living in the pampered shadow of the Capitol should have to resort to something like this, and I wonder what happened to her family to make this girl fall so far.

 

“We should get you to town for some tea, warm you up,” I say when she doesn’t answer me. When I stand, she recoils further, and uncertain what to do, I look around, my eyes landing on a scarf hanging out to dry at the nearby Thompson home. I knock and when there’s no answer, I jump the fence, leaving a handful of coins in the pocket of a pair of pants and grabbing the scarf.

 

When I get back to the girl, I drape it over her hair, and she looks up at me, eyes confused and pleading. Holding out my hand, palm up, I wait, and hope she isn’t too terrified. With a deep breath, the girl puts her hand in mine and stands. We tie the scarf over her head to conceal her hair and features and then we link arms. She leans into me heavily, and we walk. One foot at a time until we reach the apothecary’s. I steer her towards the back and knock.

 

It’s the apothecary’s wife, Mrs. Anodune, who answers, her eyes quickly taking in the sight and then pulling us both inside her kitchen.

 

“Would you wait right here, Katniss?” Mrs. Anodune says, surprising me that she knows my name. She leads the girl to another room and then hustles back into the kitchen, setting a kettle on the stove to boil water. “Tea?”

 

I cannot believe how calm she is, a slight twinge near her right eye the only indication of stress.

 

“Is it normal to have strange girls knocking on your back door in the mornings?” I ask instead, my voice a little harsh.

 

“I’ll fix you a flask to take with you,” Mrs. Anodune says, pursing her lips. Once again, I can’t help but wonder at the arrangement my sister has with these people, and why their kindness only seems to extend to her, the sister who looks like them. It’s not that I’m jealous or angry. I'm just confused.

 

“No need, ma’am,” I say tightly, turning back towards the door I came in through. “I won’t soil your kitchen any longer.”

 

“Katniss,” she calls out, a thin warning in her tone. “Please don’t judge us too harshly. Town girls don’t have the luxury of learning special skills that might keep their families fed. They learn the trade their parents or husbands have and help that way. And if they can’t do that, or if it still isn’t enough, they may...choose a more unsavory path.”

 

I freeze and look back over my shoulder at her as her words work their way through everything I know about my world. The lines of girls huddled by the barracks, most of them with their heads and faces covered. Were some of them Town girls disguising themselves as Seam to avoid the shame? I grip the door handle.

 

“That’s the thing, Mrs. Anodune,” I murmur. “Not all Seam girls are as lucky as Prim and I. Most of them aren’t. After all, you can train your children as soon as they're old enough. We can’t go into the mines until we’re eighteen. I don’t have a single cruel or judgemental thought for that girl. Just disgust for the world that forced her to do this and pity for her.”

 

For a moment, Mrs. Anodune’s eyes widen in horror as she realizes what I’m telling her. That sometimes, the girls in line hoping for coins are still children. She opens her mouth, but I leave the building before she can speak, too wrought with sickness to engage in any more conversation. 

 

I take a long route home, and eventually find myself at Gale’s house, the need for a friend nearly choking me. When he answers the door, I motion for him to follow me.

 

“We need to talk,” I say. We head to the only place I can think of, the charred remains of the Hob, where Gale and I used to share laughter over bowls of Greasy Sae’s stew or secret smiles when we made a good bargain and knew the satisfaction of doing something to take care of the people we love.

 

“I heard you helped one of them,” Gale says as we finally stop walking. “What’d you hope to gain?”   
  
I don’t answer for a long time, wondering if he’s talking about Delly. He has to be. He couldn’t have already heard about the other girl. When I do answer, all I can think of is one word.   
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“Catnip,” Gale says softly, his hands grasping for mine. I didn’t even notice him moving to stand close to me. “You’re being too soft. Too trusting. You have to know they hate every last one of us.”   
  
“What about Prim and the apothecary?” I ask and step away from his touch. I still don’t know what to do about the way he’s been acting. The kisses, the declaration of love.   
  
“Come on, Katniss,” he says in exasperation. “She looks like them. You notice they didn’t ask you to be an apprentice? There can’t be trust between us. Not when they get everything and we get nothing.”   
  
“I’m not a healer,” I argue. “And what about my parents? They trusted one another. They _ loved _ each other. Enough for her to leave everything behind and be happy with my father.”   
  
“That’s one example,” Gale snaps.   
  
But I’m thinking of hundreds of examples. People who make me question if the lines are really so clear. If it has to be an  _ us  _ and a  _ them _ . Delly. The girl I found cowering in the Seam. Darius. Madge. Peeta.    
  
We’re not the same. Gale’s right about that, but it doesn’t feel like the complete picture, either.   
  
“If it can happen once, it can happen again,” I spit out.   
  
“How can you say things like that?” Gale asks. “Have you forgotten Wesley? The searches? The indignities? I’m worried about you, Katniss.”

 

“I’m fine, Gale,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets so he can’t get them in his grasp.

 

“You’ve just been...different since the night you and your dad--”

 

“I’m  _ fine _ , Gale,” I stress, cutting him off before he can say too much.

 

“Well fine, then,” Gale says with tight lips. “We know how to disagree at least. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

 

He walks away from me, leaving me feeling empty and more lost than I was when I sought his company. 

 

I move through the day in a haze, ignoring the sounds of crashes and shouts that echo through the Seam as the Peacekeepers tear it apart again. What more could they possibly hope to find at this point? I don’t know, but at the end of the day, when Prim comes in from a long day of healing, she drops a paper in my lap, her lips pressed together in a thin line and worry etched on her features.

 

But after the day I’ve had, I tear into Peeta’s letter, eager for something to help me deal with this rock of nausea forming in my stomach.

 

_ Katniss, _

 

_ I wasn’t the only one wearing a mask that night. We all were. But you’ve got a point. Maybe I don’t understand what your life is like. I’d like to, mainly because I want to understand you. Will you still distrust me in two months when I’m chiseling out coal for a living? I don’t have much of a choice, and neither do most of your neighbors. There has to be a better way. _

 

_ Your friend, _

_ Peeta _

 

_ P.S. If you wish, I want to see you again, without the threat of arrest hanging over our heads. There’s a section of woods inside the northern fences, which I am sure you are familiar with. Not far from the fence is a clearing. Meet me there tomorrow around noon. If you don’t show, I’ll understand. _

 

If there is a better way, I don’t know what it is, all I know is that those two words at the end, “Your friend,” still hold an awesome power over me. The possibility that there could still be something good in this world where young girls sell themselves to keep food on their family’s table and even the ones who have it the easiest aren’t free of that trap. So on the following day, I make the trek out past the wreckage of the Hob to the place Peeta indicated in his letter. 

 

I arrive early, and he’s not there yet. I walk from one tree to its neighbor until I’ve made a complete ring. Spring has arrived in full glory, tufts of flowers and grass sprout in the spots where sunlight reaches the forest floor here. I listen and watch as the Mockingjays flit from one branch to another, exchanging bits of song. I catch a few familiar refrains here and there and eventually, their song pulls me in. My father taught me how to do this, when I was little, before hatred and rations lines and masked protesters complicated my life. Back when all I cared about was learning to wield a bow and garnering my father’s approval.

 

With a cleansing breath, I unleash a song, a soft melody about a dancing girl, spinning in a meadow carpeted in flowers. Around the second verse, the tempo picks up, transforming into something like a dance tune. The birds have fallen still, heads cocked as they listen to me sing, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. I even manage a few spritely steps for their entertainment, and when I finish the song, they pick it up, weave it into something even more glorious as they pass it through the trees.

 

I wonder if Peeta will recognize the tune. They’ll probably still be singing it when he gets here.

 

Footsteps crunch through the brush, scattering a few of the birds, but several remain, stubbornly still singing the song I gave them as I turn to face the approaching person. Peeta pushes through a few low hanging branches with a smile on his face.

 

“I haven’t heard a dance song in ages,” he says, spreading the blanket he’s carrying on the ground and dropping a satchel onto it. “Remember when we were kids, they used to hold dances in the square?”

 

“I’d forgotten that,” I say. But he’s right. I think of the fiddle I saw smashed outside of Ripper’s home, back during the first round of awful searches and strings of punishments. “I guess the Capitol decided they didn’t like us making music anymore.”

 

Peeta tilts his head back, pursing his lips and whistling the same song. It isn’t long before several of the birds return, drawn to the repetition of the song as it once more spreads and strengthens. 

 

“I’ve always wanted to do that, but could never get enough of them to hang around long enough,” he says with a giddy smile and then extends his hand towards me, palm upwards. “Dance with me?”

 

The magic of the woods and the birds weaves its way through me until I feel lighter than air, the troubles and concerns of the past few weeks melting away on melodies. Placing my hand in his, I smile and then laugh as he twirls me in a rapid series of turns, leaving me dizzy with my hands splayed on his chest as we stand in the sunlight. I slide one hand up to his shoulder. He grasps the other one, and as the birds chirp the tune back to us in a layered symphony, we dance on the grass. We laugh when Peeta loses his footing for just a moment and then I lose my balance in another twirl, but he steadies me and carries me through the next few steps until I regain what I lost.

 

When we finally collapse breathless on the blanket, I don’t even second guess it as he twines our fingers together, brings mine to his lips and kisses them. Just like he did that morning.

 

“Thank you, Katniss,” he murmurs. “It’s been hard to find joy like that lately.”

 

All I can do is nod and blush as he releases my hand and lays back on the blanket, folding his hands beneath his head as he looks up towards the canopy. I stretch out beside him, mirroring his position. We speak of inconsequential things, the sunlight dappling our faces. He tells me about working at the bakery, how he’s the one who frosts all those cakes Prim and I have stopped to admire throughout the years. I talk about Prim and her menagerie of rescued animals. Lady the goat, Buttercup the cat, who hates me. We make a game out of pointing out shapes in the clouds as they pass by overhead. At one point, Peeta pulls a sketchbook and pencils from the bag.

 

I like watching him as he works, his hands arcing over the page as he brings to life a flower, then one of the Mockingjays that he whistles to, luring it back to pose for him. His face takes on this intense look of concentration. Hidden worlds locked away in his mind, flashing in his eyes as he draws. I wonder if he looks this way when he frosts the cakes in the bakery. 

 

I become fixated on his eyelashes, so long and golden in the sunshine, almost invisible when he blinks. When he looks up at me, I startle. Embarrassed at being caught staring.

 

“I brought a few things to eat, if you’re hungry,” he says shyly. I shrug, feeling wrong about accepting food from him. “They’re not much. They’ve already gone stale by my mother’s bakery standards and will get thrown out if we don’t eat them.”

 

“Okay,” I say and reluctantly take the flaky pastry from him. When we’re done eating, I can’t help the comment from flying out of my mouth. “We’d never be able to afford something like this. There’s no way I can repay you.”

 

“You don’t have to repay me, Katniss. Besides, we can’t afford this either. At least not fresh.” As I stare at him, chewing on the treat, he sighs and continues. “The only way my family eats something like this is if it doesn’t sell and is about to go stale.”

 

I swallow and consider Peeta as he brushes crumbs off of the blanket. He’d mentioned something along these lines the night my father and I found him bleeding in the streets, but Peeta is so strong and broad shouldered, that I guess I’d just assumed he’d been referring to Merchant families other than his own. The gift of fresh, if a little crispy, bread two years ago takes on new meaning. 

 

“Tastes fine to me,” I murmur, though. Because it seems important, to let him know how much I appreciate this gift and every other one that he’s given me. Slowly, his eyes shift back up to me before he picks his book up and returns to sketching as we talk.

 

He hides the book from me this time, though, and I weave a crown of dandelions to keep my hands busy. I finish the crown first and drape it over his head, making him laugh lightly before he finally turns the book for my inspection.

 

He drew me. In Peeta’s hands, I am radiant. A woodland sprite weaving crowns of flowers with birds flocking around me. The question spills out before I can stop it.

 

“Why’d you ask me here?”

 

“I told you why,” he says softly. I remember.

 

“But why do you want to see  _ me _ ,” I press, thinking of the Capitol vitriol he shared with me in his last letter. There’s no reason for Peeta to pursue a friendship outside the lines etched across our world. “Is it because you’re scared of moving to the Seam in a month?”

 

“Maybe that’s part of it,” he admits as he shifts to face me fully. Again, I mirror his movements, not wanting to miss a bit of what he says. “But I’ve always been intrigued by you.”

 

“Because of my mother,” I say, believing his interest to only stem from the scandal she created in town. Our family must seem so strange to Town families.

 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, maybe it started there, because of my father, but by the time we were older, it had become so much more.”

 

“I don’t understand,” I say, my face scrunching in confusion.

 

“My dad,” Peeta explains. “He was, well, he was in love with your mother. Or at least wanted to marry her.”   
  


I stare agape at him. This is the first I’ve heard of any connection between our parents. Peeta huffs lightly as he takes in my expression.

 

“I guess that’s not something that’d come up at your family’s dinner table.”

 

“But it came up at yours?” I ask testily.

 

“It was never talked about outright, but my mother always seemed to kind of hold it against my dad. And I think she always figured he never got over your mother. I don’t know.

 

“What I do know is that my father pointed you out to me on our first day at school, when we were five. He told me that he had wanted to marry your mother but that she’d run off to the Seam with a man whose voice could enchant the birds. I didn’t believe it until I heard you sing that day in music assembly. After that, I was a goner.”

 

“You’re teasing me,” I say, laughing nervously.

 

“I wouldn’t tease you about something like this, Katniss. I told you I had a crush on you for a long time.”

 

“But since we were five? And you never said anything to me?”

 

“Guess I’m braver when I’m wearing a mask,” he says, unable to meet my eyes.

 

“Everyone is braver when they’re wearing a mask,” I say and he finally looks at me again.

 

“Katniss,” he whispers, leaning towards me just a little. “I’ve really liked our letters. It’s given me something to look forward to.”

 

“Me too,” I admit, suddenly thinking of this boy covered in coal dust, face streaked with the lines of worry I associate with the people of the Seam. I wonder if a Seam girl would have him as her husband. She’d have to be crazy not to. He’s strong, determined, handsome in his own way, and clearly willing to bend or even shatter the rules for something he believes in. He’d make an incredible partner and father.

 

My entire body heats at these thoughts, and as I sit there staring into his blue eyes, I realize, I don’t want him in the mines. I don’t want him gaining that intimate knowledge of our way of life. Not because I begrudge him the understanding, or because I think he won’t get it, or because I’m jealous or angry that he grew up in a sheltered life compared to mine, but because I’m afraid the mines will crush him. I don’t want to lose this hopeful, giving boy.

 

I lurch forward, my lips bumping awkwardly into his. Peeta freezes. I immediately feel stupid and jump back. Just because he used to have a crush on me doesn’t mean he wants me to kiss him. My cheeks burn in humiliation.

 

“Wait!” Peeta gasps, gently grasping both my hands, stopping me from running away. “I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me.”

 

“Neither was I,” I whisper to the ground.

 

“Can we try that again?” he asks softly, urgently. I lift my gaze to his as my pulse trips over itself at the shy smile spreading over his lips.

 

“Are you ready for it this time?” I ask.

 

“As much as I can be,” he says.

 

“Then I’ll allow it,” I say with far more confidence than I feel.

 

As he leans in towards me, eyes trained on mine, I hope he can’t tell how I’m trembling or struggling to breathe. He lets go of one of my hands, squeezing the other as he runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek, the shell of my ear, tucking my hair back. His caress impossibly gentle. My eyes flutter shut to the sounds of our shared breaths and the birds still singing our song. His hand cups my jaw, tilting my head back just a touch.

 

The brush of his lips on mine is the kiss of the sunshine on my bare skin in summer. I’m expecting fireworks or something grander. Instead, I melt into him, lifting my arms free and wrapping them around his neck. He retreats just enough to whisper my name and kiss the tip of my nose.

 

“Don’t stop, Peeta,” I plead.

 

He groans and tugs me onto his lap, winding his arms around me before kissing my lips again. I thought kissing him would quench my curiosity, but I was wrong. It’s only made my need stronger. My fingers find their way into his hair and tug, trying to bring his warmth closer, deeper inside my chest. He inhales sharply and I make some sort of strangled noise. Like a person who’s starved for days and stumbles across a banquet. My body molds itself into his, achingly aware of the warmth of his hands on my back.

 

I want to know the feel of his heartbeat against my palms. To know if it’s racing the way mine is, so I slide my hands down his chest then under his shirt. I find the raised scar from a few weeks ago and the heat of the sun, his muscles pulsing under my touch, as though he craves more. My hands travel higher, until they’re squeezed between our hearts and I can feel the strong and steady beat of his under my palms. His breath catches and I open my mouth to ask for more.

 

A train horn blares, cutting off the bird song as they scatter, and tearing our lips apart. We stare at one another, halfway ignoring the interruption, wonder written across our features.

 

“Wow,” Peeta whispers, still holding me close. But the horn is the sound of a train departing the District with its load of coal, a stark reminder of the world we live in injected into this stolen moment.

 

“We should head back,” I whisper and watch the happiness drain from Peeta’s eyes as he stands, setting me on my feet.

 

I want to pull him back to me, to tell him that it’s no good. As much as I want to to stay here with him, kissing and spreading song, enjoying the sun and his warming embrace, I know that I can’t. Eventually, we have to return to our separate homes.

 

“Yeah,” he says, releasing me and stepping back.

 

“Peeta,” I say, following him to lessen the distance. “Meet me here again next week? Same time?”

 

His eyes soften and a smile stretches his lips again. Our arms reach out for one another and he folds me into his embrace once more, his hands running up and down my spine in a soothing caress. When we finally step back, we’re both smiling again. 

 

“Until next Sunday,” he whispers before pressing a sweet kiss to my lips.

 

As I walk back through the Seam, I can’t help but finger my lips, thinking about my afternoon with Peeta. It isn’t until I nearly run into him that I see Gale.

 

“Catnip,” he says tersely, his eyes raking over me in a way that makes me feel as though he’s read my every thought. Knows my every secret. Has discovered my deepest desires. I shift on my feet as his mouth works like he’s searching for words or trying to remove a foul taste from his tongue. “Tonight. At Thom’s place. Bring the yarn I gave you.”

 

Then he spins on his heel, leaving me wondering what happened in town while I was with Peeta. I don’t have to wait long to find out. Almost the instant I step through the door, Prim sets upon me.

 

“I was so worried,” she says. “Dad’s still in the mines, there are rumors flying that they’ve extended everyone’s hours and raised the quota, and then Peacekeepers came searching through the houses again and I didn’t know where you or Papa were. Then the Keagan twins turned up beaten bloody on their doorstep. I’ve been waiting for you to get home before I go over there, but I need to leave or the damage might be irreparable and--”

 

“Prim, I’m fine. Stop talking. Calm down and get over there,” I say. She grabs her basket, already packed and right before she steps through the door, she takes a deep breath, her face settling into the calm mask of a healer. The face our mother used to wear.

 

I sit at the table and listen for sounds in the Seam, but it’s so quiet now. Eerily so. I think about the mask hidden beneath the floorboards, next to the small pile of letters from Peeta. The comment Prim made about the Peacekeepers searching again. I crawl beneath our bed and pry up the board, sighing in relief when I find everything still there.

 

Fingering the mask, I mull over my options. And I finally realize that I am out of options. For years now, I have sat back and accepted the life handed to us, just as my father has done, out of fear. Fear that they would hurt my sister or someone else that I love. But the truth is, they’ve already hurt us. Prim nearly starving at least half a dozen times. The child they hung in Eleven. Wesley’s unpunished murder. His children dragged to the community home. The Peacekeeper shoving me to the ground, tearing apart homes and families on a whim. Delly being beaten for an act of compassion. Gale in the stocks. Peeta nearly dying alone in the streets. My mother’s family ostracizing her. It benefits no one to live in a world where these things happen. 

 

I push the mask back into the hole and replace the floor board. And as I wait for the darkness, I promise myself it’s the last waiting that I will do.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“What are we doing?” I ask Gale in whispers as we move through the Seam, masks already on, my braid tucked inside. The mask restricts my breathing, muffles sounds, and hampers my peripheral vision. I’m a hunter. Relying on all of my senses is essential, and the diminishment of one throws me off balance. The diminishment of three is nearly unbearable.

 

“The plan is to take the Peacekeeper barracks. Some of us will provide a distraction in the square, the rest will swarm the barracks and take control of their arsenal while they’re busy.”

 

I swallow back a hundred protests. It sounds dangerous and violent. Risky. The worried eyes of my father as I left my home earlier tonight swim before my eyes. But I have chosen Gale and the rebellion, so I follow him towards the square. Along the way, we’re joined by hundreds of other masked people, eyes glowing eerily in the few streetlights. They’re the only facial features I can discern through the masks. A thousand glowing embers in the night.

 

“There’s so many,” I whisper in awe.

 

“They’re all tired,” he says.

 

When we reach the outskirts of the square, the Peacekeepers greet us, already forming a line to ring the open space and prevent us from entering. I spot Thread pacing up and down behind the line, pistol in hand, hanging loosely at his side. Nonchalant. As though he’s faced crowds of thousands of angry people with forces of a few hundred men and women before. 

 

Several of the Peacekeepers shift nervously and I watch as the protesters in front hone in on them, crowding their space and jeering their complaints at the weak points in the line. More of us close ranks and I barely notice as a handful of masked men shuffle through us, siphoning off a few at a time and pointing towards the barracks. Until they approach Gale and me.

 

“Gale don’t leave me,” I hiss as they direct him towards the barracks but not me.

 

“It’ll be fine,” he says, eyes lit with the heat of the hunt. “I’ll find you after.”

 

As soon as Gale leaves, my courage wavers. I stand with the crowd as several upfront begin a chant, their shouts calling out to more to join us. Looking behind me, I see nothing but a writhing sea of masked faces choking the streets. A few hold up signs, decrying the violence against children and innocents, the abuse of honest laborers. A couple of smaller protesters, perhaps teenagers like me or even younger, clamber up onto adult shoulders, their hands gesturing angrily as their yells get lost in the rising cacophony of indignation.

 

It pulses. Moving forward and retreating by slow degrees, and as I watch, the Peacekeeper line gradually retreats. Back and back, one step at a time. Such a small gain, but the euphoria of even this tiny victory surges through the crowd, through me. I move in synch with them as our angry voices ring out across the square. 

 

Then it breaks.

 

Short bursts of gunfire pepper the night from the direction of the barracks. The wave crests as a few Peacekeepers yell orders, several break ranks and head for the barracks, leaving the rest of them vulnerable. It takes all of my strength not to be crushed under the advancing feet of the mob. I trip and scrape my knee on the paving stones, scramble to the edges of the crowd as a few people step on me, blinded in their rage and the scent of victory thick in the air.

 

Finally regaining my feet, I seek the edges, an alleyway to escape. Jostled in the crowd, though, I find myself plastered to the wall of one of the shops. I wait there as the horror unfolds behind me. Peacekeepers firing blindly into the crowd. Protesters wrestling the gun free from one of them and turning it on him. Shooting the Peacekeeper even as he raises his hands in surrender. A dozen people swarming over one Peacekeeper with fists flying. Thread shooting point blank with a calm snarl on his face. Smashing the butt of his pistol against the skull of someone when he runs out of ammunition. There’s an explosion and the wails of children in agony.

 

This isn’t what I was expecting.

 

The protesters begin to scatter, the tide turned against them as more Peacekeepers emerge from the barracks, garbed in face shields and carrying rifles. One uses a fire hose to spray down the nearest group of protestors, the force of the water sending them to their knees.

 

I shake my head in denial. This can’t be the way.

 

Strong hands grasp my shoulders and pull me further into the shadows. Slam me against another building and then form a barricade between me and an approaching fight between three people and a Peacekeeper. Tilting my head back, I meet Peeta’s terrified blue eyes for just a second before he turns to shove the fight away from us. His features are unmasked and visible. I nearly collapse in relief, but he grabs my hand and runs, dragging me down the alley as my puppet limbs obey.

 

“You have to get out of here!”

 

“How?” is all I manage to say as he stops at the edge of the square, behind the bakery, and checks the adjoining streets. How did he know it was me? He understands what I’m asking and reaches out to finger the end of my braid, which has worked it’s way free of my mask. Then he bends down and kisses me before shoving me away from him.

 

“Just get home and destroy that mask. Get out of here, go!” he yells urgently.

 

My feet move and I race home, only taking a second to worry about Gale’s safety as I dodge a collision with another fleeing protester. Gale is smart. He’ll know when it’s time to cut losses and run. 

 

I take a circuitous route, checking over my shoulder and quaking at every flash of white that I spot. Deep in the Seam, I leap over a fence and use the back alleys to wind my way through homes. My heart hammers as I run, hidden from view, but trapped with no alternate way to turn. Finally, I reach the edges of the Seam and clamber over the rickety fence, shushing Lady as she bleats at me for disturbing her sleep. Then I fall through our door into the waiting arms of my father and Prim.

 

They tear the mask from my face and Prim throws it on the fire as my father holds me, shushing me, and I can’t help but think about the morning after we helped Peeta. And how different that felt compared to this raw terror. 

 

Once my father has calmed me and Prim has managed to get some tea down my throat and patch up my scrapes, we douse the candles and the three of us huddle in my father’s bed, waiting for retribution to rain down on our roof. We lay awake the entire night as the District grows silent. Silent as stone. And dawn brings no relief.

 

The electricity flares to life with the rising sun, the blaring of the anthem on the television scaring all of us out of our wits. The announcement of mandatory assembly in town squares for all Districts, effective immediately.

 

They don’t even bother with attendance. My first clue that things have gone horribly wrong as I huddle in the blanket my father draped around me as we left our home. The massive screens hastily hung on scaffolding around the square show our own District as we gather in gray masses for warmth or for safety. At least the illusion of safety. The scene is far too similar to the one of a hanging in District 11 to do anything but destroy my already frazzled nerves.

 

I search the crowd for the Hawthornes, but we’re all a jumble, the only real division that the Town families have been corralled at the front, having arrived first with a shorter distance to travel to the square. I search their ranks for Peeta, but staring at the backs of the rows of blond heads is hopeless. I can’t tell from this far back.

 

“Last evening,” President Snow’s voice announces, “Several working class citizens mistakenly attempted to riot in the streets of District Twelve. Such unwarranted violence is unacceptable. Untenable. We are a family here in Panem. A beautiful system. The Capitol is the beating heart. The Districts are the organs. We cannot survive without one. And the organs certainly cannot survive without a heart. It pains me greatly to do this, to punish so broadly an entire District, but our laws are firm and must be executed. Proceed, Commander Thread.”

 

I finally spot Thread standing at attention on the stage-like gallows erected sometime in the past few weeks, just to the left of the Justice Hall. He nods at the President on screen and then calls for the first round as the image shifts back to our square. I shiver as five people are led to the gallows, their hands placed in the nooses that hang too high for a traditional hanging and the ropes tightened, arms stretched above their heads. The Capitol’s intention becomes clear as Thread runs the many tails of a lash through one fist. We don’t have enough whipping posts to do this. So we will use the gallows instead. It’s a sobering reminder that they would usually hang us for these offences.

 

But they can’t afford to kill that many of their slaves, I think bitterly.

 

“Name a co-conspirator and receive five lashes instead of ten,” Thread announces. 

 

A collective gasp rises up from the crowd as a few of the prisoners call out names. Most of them refuse. Peacekeepers work their way through the crowd and arrest the owners of the newly accused names. I sink against my father as I realize this could taint the entire District. Any trust left in the Seam itself will be rent asunder. Forget about any forbidden trust between the Town and the Seam.

 

Tears slip from my eyes as the whip whistles in the air. I don’t want to watch, but I know it will be aired live then replayed for several days. A reminder to the rest of the Districts of what happens to those who dare to try to change things. Beside me, Prim sobs quietly.

 

“There’s an entire pen full of people back there,” she whispers brokenly. I crane my neck as Peacekeepers untie the prisoners, their backs a cross pattern of raised welts. The ones who refused to name anyone else have several marks that broke the skin and now seep blood.

 

“You’re going to be busy later today,” my father tells Prim. Her lip quivers and I reach out to take her hand. 

 

“We’ll help you,” I tell her and she nods. So many people arrested, and somehow I managed to escape. Because of Peeta. The least I can do to repay his kindness is swallow down my fears of touching the bleeding and the dying to help my sister heal these people.

 

“No, I want that one by himself,” Thread says, drawing my attention back to the gallows.

 

Murmurs of shock rise up over the crowd as a Peacekeeper shoves a lone young man onto the stage, his blond hair coming into view first. Despite the push, he maintains his footing. And Peeta stands straight and defiant before Thread, his bound fists clasped serenely in front of him.

 

My heart stops and a strangled noise escapes my throat, drowned out by the confused murmurs amongst the people of the Seam and the angry cries from the Townspeople. My father’s arm tightens around me and Prim strangles my hand. Thread’s body language sends a clear message. This prisoner is being made an example. I wonder if it’s because he’s a Merchant.

 

“You stand accused of inciting riots, evading arrest, and aiding other rioters in evading arrest. Charges extend to an incident occurring four weeks hence as well. Punishment is sixty-five lashes,” Thread proclaims, his voice magnified by the microphone clipped to his uniform. My knees wobble. The whispers turn to gasps of shock. Sixty-five lashes will kill someone.  “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

 

“On what grounds am I accused?” Peeta asks, his voice astonishingly calm.

 

“On lies!” someone up front yells. “This is ridiculous!”

 

There’s a scuffle and the sound of a blow, and for a second, Peeta wavers on the stage as Peacekeepers carry a limp form from the crowd, depositing his body on the steps leading to the bakery. One of Peeta’s brothers.

 

“On eye witness statements,” Thread says and nods at someone behind the stage. Boots march up the steps and drop a battered form on the stage. I cover my mouth to contain the scream in my throat at this impossible nightmare as he tries to stand and falls back down with a moan of pain. Tears cloud my vision, but I still recognize the bright shock of red hair and the tatters of a white Peacekeeper uniform. Darius.

 

“Name a co-conspirator and reduce your sentence by five lashes,” Thread growls. “Name two and reduce it by ten. Get the idea?”

 

Peeta nods and the murmurs of the crowd die out, waiting for him to name people. I can feel it, the expectation that he’ll just accuse thirteen random people from the Seam to save himself, but instead, he remains resolutely silent.

 

“Names?” Thread prompts.

 

“No,” Peeta replies.

 

He’s roughly turned, hands secured in a noose and his shirt ripped from his back. Once again the crowd’s murmurs grow. Unsettled, uncertain. Confused. He could have said he didn’t know any names. Attempted to deny any involvement. But his unadorned refusal says something else. It says, “I won’t betray the people who trust me. I won’t even betray those who don’t.”

 

I grip the blanket around me and fix my eyes on Peeta’s back. My father holds tight to me.

 

I can’t watch this. I can’t watch this. I can’t watch this. 

 

But I can’t look away.

 

Thread raises his arm and brings the lash down. Peeta doesn’t make a sound, although his entire body jerks, muscles bulging as he tenses with the pain. Another lash and the crowd gasps. Another and this time Peeta does cry out, softly it seems, although the sound echoes in my ears. For a moment, I am sitting behind the bakery again, listening to his mother strike him for burning bread that he gave to me. And I can’t stand it any longer. I shake my head in denial then I launch myself through the crowd, my feet and pounding blood carrying me forward. 

 

“Katniss!” My father calls out in distress. People move aside for me or I shove them aside.

 

“No,” I whisper as the agitated noises of the crowd propel me towards the gallows. I catch brief glimpses of the horror taking place in our town square and know that I have to get to him. Finally, the last people between me and Peeta part, revealing the stage. I barrel up the steps and stand between him and Thread, hands raised as I scream. “NO! STOP!”

 

The lash swings down, the butt of it connecting with my face. I fall to my hands and knees, blinking away the pain. For a moment, my eyes find a familiar face amongst the pen of people awaiting their punishment. Gale. His mouth drops open, face slack in shock instead of contorted in rage. All around us, silence reigns.

 

Thread kneels down in front of me and I look up at him, cheek stinging as what I’ve just done settles on my shoulders.

 

“Thank you for confessing,” he sneers. “State your name for the record.”

 

I won’t say it kneeling down. So I slowly regain my feet as he does the same, his eyes hardening at my display of defiance.

 

“Katniss Everdeen,” I tell him to a fresh chorus of whispers from the crowd. The noises gain traction as he motions towards Peeta, and I understand. I am to receive the same punishment. I walk to stand beside him, our eyes locking as he shakes his head. His face is twisted in the effort to control pain, his skin dappled with sweat. And I can see in his eyes that what I have just done is unforgivable to him.

 

“Katniss, what are you doing?” he pants.

 

“Confessing,” I say and Peeta squeezes his eyes shut as a Peacekeeper binds my hands in the noose next to his, my arms stretched over my head as his are. I shift towards him, hoping his proximity will help me stay strong, and brace myself. A whistle and then fire streaks across my back. I bite my lip to hold back any noise, but Peeta cries out beside me and shifts his own feet closer. Another whistle and this time, it’s Peeta’s body that recoils in pain.

 

As Thread doles out the lashes and the agony spreads across my back in a wildfire of welts, Peeta and I move towards one another, until we’re close enough to grasp hands, to link our fingers together.

 

“Why?” he wails after a lash.

 

“I couldn’t just stand back and watch,” I whisper through clenched teeth before the lash strikes my back again. Peeta begins to slump, his wrists chafing in his bonds as his knees begin to give out.

 

“No, Peeta!” I cry out, selfishly unwilling to let him go into the oblivion and leave me alone. He’s about ten lashes ahead of me, though. The pain must be brutal and we’re not even close to being done. “Stay awake!”

 

He nods weakly, but I can see that I’m losing him, his eyes drooping in a fight to stay conscious.

 

I squeeze his fingers in mine as another blow burns across my back. He returns the squeeze and I press my lips to his. I kiss him full on the mouth as Thread rains fire on our backs. Peeta’s lips contort beneath mine for a second. Then I cry out against his. Tears and snot and saliva mingle on our lips. On and on it goes. 

 

And then, a new sound rises up over the crowd. Sounds of discontent, of a collective people unwilling to accept the boot pressed to their throat. There are shouts and then the screaming protest of metal. A crash that shakes the very earth.

 

Mercifully, the lashes cease as chaos erupts around us. I catch a glimpse of the prisoners, of Gale, fighting with their wrists still tied, overrunning the stage. Sounds haze as hands grab hold of me. Gentle, supporting. My hands are cut free and I shout in agony as I am half dragged, half carried off to the side.

 

“Peeta!” I yell, but I don’t hear his answer over the noise of the rebellion. Then I slip into the sweet relief of unconsciousness I tried to deny him, heart heavy with guilt.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As I was editing this puppy, I discovered that I didn’t like my ending to it. Too much telling, not enough showing. In order to fix that, this chapter was getting way too long. So please excuse my faux pas of ending a chapter with Katniss passing out. I decided that instead of writing a 25-30K monster of a chapter and finishing it in one fell swoop, it would be better to divide this last chapter into two. This one’s already a beast as it is. I don’t believe chapter 3 will be nearly as long, although I’m not sure when I’ll be done with it since I am struggling a little with exactly how to get from this point to the closing scene that I have in mind without all that telling I mentioned. Hope you are enjoying it so far, and please have just a little more patience for me. Once this story is done, I will be focusing on the insane number of other open stories that I have and hopefully finishing up at least a few of them before the year is out. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

_ Are you, are you coming to the tree, _

_ Where the dead man called out _

_ For his love to flee _

 

I must be dead. I can hear my mother singing. Singing a song she banned from our house when I was seven years old.

 

_ Strange things did happen here _

_ No stranger would it be _

_ If we met up at midnight _

_ In the hanging tree _

 

Her fingers caress over my face and I turn my head to feel more of her soothing touches. How I’ve missed her.

 

“Didn’t think you’d remember that song,” my father says softly.

 

“Mom banning it sort of permanently etched it into my brain,” Prim says. I want to tell her that the song is etched in my brain too. I try to move my hand, to reach out for her, but someone restrains it. I’m laying on my stomach, my back feels as though a hundred deer have stomped over it. Throbbing in a dull pain. But also cold.

 

“She’s coming around,” Prim whispers. I open my eyes and find my sister and father peering at me, relief plain on their faces.

 

“Why’s everyone so worried?” I ask.

 

“You were out for a good while,” my father explains and the events of the morning return to me.

 

“Peeta!” I cry out and try to lift myself.  Searing pain streaks down my back.

 

“Katniss, don’t!” Prim commands. “You’ll move the ice!”

 

Although her tone is firm, her hands on me are gentle, holding me to the table. I go limp beneath her touch, trying to hold myself together as I try to make sense of what happened. A million questions fly at me, all surpassed by the one I can’t seem to shake.

 

“Where’s Peeta?”

 

“I don’t know,” Prim says, her eyes dropping from mine as a stone of dread settles in my stomach. “After they cut you both down, we somehow got separated. Maysilee brought us here, to get you out of danger but…”

 

“We didn’t see where they took Peeta,” my father says softly and cups my cheek.

 

I swallow thickly and peer around my father, avoiding the questions pounding against my temple and the fear churning in my gut. Instead, taking stock of my surroundings. Something simple that I can handle right now without suffocating.

 

I’m in a Merchant kitchen. Tidy and well ordered, but clearly a place that receives frequent use based on the scarred flooring and worn surfaces. Instead of the chemical and distilling equipment of the apothecary’s kitchen, I find large copper kettles on a stove. Clear containers with a variety of sugars, flours, and other ingredients line the walls. Glass vials with brightly colored liquids. For a moment, I think perhaps that I am in the bakery. But then I remember that Peeta would be here, too. And there would be brick ovens lining the wall, filling the room with heat. I’m lying on a wide scrubbed counter. With enough space for a second person.

 

Once more, I swallow and notice that, other than my father and Prim, the room is empty. Through the door, I see a merchant woman who looks vaguely familiar bustling about the front room, providing rudimentary care to a motley mix of Seam and Merchant.

 

“You should get some rest,” Prim says gently. I nod and carefully, so as to not cause myself any more pain, I turn my head to rest on my other cheek, staring at the space where Peeta should be, listening to my sister’s retreating footsteps as she goes to the front room. No doubt to help tend to the other wounded. My father remains, shifting in his seat and sighing heavily on occasion.

 

For the first time, I think about what my actions would have done to my father. To see his child's back flayed open by a whip. The very thing he had hoped to avoid by sheltering us from the growing unrest. Tears I refuse to shed sting my eyes and I strain my ears for other sounds. Something to indicate the strife taking place outside, but it is strangely quiet. Unnerving.

 

“I’m so sorry, Papa,” I whisper.

 

“Oh Katniss, no,” my father says, his chair scraping on the wood floor. He leans over me, his hands fluttering here and there, afraid to touch me fully for fear of causing me more pain, finally settling on stroking my hair. It is this that finally breaks me and the hot tears course down my face. Pool beneath my cheek. “No, I’m sorry. If I hadn’t insisted on taking him in that night…”

 

“Is that really what you wish for?” I ask, thinking of how adamant my father had been about caring for Peeta. That we do the right thing. I don’t want my father to regret what we did that night, because I don’t regret it. He sighs heavily and kisses my brow.

 

“I don’t know, Katniss. I don’t know anymore,” he answers. I nod, because this is an answer I can at least understand. “Try to get some more rest.”

 

It takes a few minutes, but I eventually sink into the depths of darkness. I drift in a fog that glows with an inner light. I follow faint tracks in the ground, catch the scents of cinnamon. Of dill. A soft brush of fingers on mine and then the dancing fire of weeks ago returns. It has a voice this time. Multiple voices. Calling my name.

 

My eyes fly open and I stare at the wall, remain perfectly still as I listen to the conversation taking place behind me. Once or twice, I catch my name in the whispered words. As the remnants of sleep finally fade away, I am able to make sense of the words.

 

“Need to get out of here. No telling how quickly they’ll retaliate.”

 

“Be stupid to destroy a whole District over this.”

 

“Tell that to Thirteen.”

 

“What about Katniss?”

 

“Find a way to move her. It’s the boy I’m worried about.”

 

The boy. Peeta. My entire body tenses as my sister’s voice joins the conversation.

 

“We still don’t know where he is?”

 

“No clue,” says a vaguely familiar feminine voice.

 

“Not many of the Merchant families are talking to anyone. They’ve barricaded themselves inside their homes for the most part. We’re lucky Maysilee let us make use of her shop.”

 

“Cowards,” Gale says.

 

“They did help pull down the screens and cut your girl down from her noose,” another voice I know growls. Our neighbor, Haymitch Abernathy.

 

“Clearly, she’s not my girl,” Gale says.

 

“Enough,” my father interjects before the conversation turns to a fight. “Have any of you tried the apothecary?”

 

Yes, I think. The apothecary would be the obvious place to take Peeta. In fact, I’m starting to wonder why we aren’t there ourselves. Behind me, I hear the awkward clearing of throats and shuffling of feet.

 

“Primrose already tried,” the other feminine voice says, but now I can place it. Maysilee Donner. Aunt to Madge Undersee and owner of the sweet shop in town. That’s where we are. Her kitchen.

 

“He wouldn’t even talk to me, Papa,” Prim says in a small voice. Then I feel her hands on my back, checking whatever bandages and medicine she’s put on me. I close my eyes, hoping to disguise the fact that I’ve been eavesdropping. I feel the slight pinch of a needle in my flesh, and even though I cling to the thread’s of consciousness, whatever medicine Prim has injected into me is too powerful. Drags me back under. Deep. Dreamless.

 

I’m lost in the darkness of unmarked time until Haymitch releases a string of curses that bring me swiftly to the surface. My limbs refuse to move and I wonder what’s wrong with them. How long I’ve been out. Loud clumping and thumping sound in the quiet room. A flurry of movement and orders being thrown about.

 

“Are you insane, woman?”

 

“Get him on the table next to Katniss.”

 

“Shit! Be careful.”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought -- I couldn’t -- he was -- I -- we would’ve --”

 

“Calm down, Priscilla. We can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Maysilee soothes and I pry my eyes open as they slide someone onto the counter next to me.

 

Peeta. He’s so pale. His eyes are closed and the skin over them a translucent blue.

 

Prim peels off the gauze bandages on his back and shakes her head, real anger in her eyes. For an instant, her eyes meet mine, but then she focuses back on her task. Cleaning. Crushing herbs into a paste she spreads over his back before placing fresh bandages over the whole thing.

 

“Maysilee, do we have any more ice?”

 

“Yes.” There’s more movements behind me and someone gently urges another to drink this tea. It’ll help.

 

I slide my hand over the counter to twine my fingers together with Peeta’s, and I am relieved to find his still warm, if unresponsive.

 

“Has he been given anything for pain, Mrs. Anodune?” Prim asks, and I suck in a sharp breath.

 

“Sleep syrup,” she says. “About two hours ago.”

 

“Sleep syrup? For a lashing?”

 

I try to place all the other new voices as they overlap, but the truth is, my heart is only half in the task as I watch Prim lay a large plastic sack filled with crushed ice over Peeta’s freshly bandaged back. I shiver with shared cold, and know that I must have one similar on my back. Ice is a luxury that even Maysilee Donner wouldn’t have been able to afford. I wonder where they got it.

 

“Alright, she’s had enough time. Start talking,” Gale says.

 

“Back off of her,” one of the new voices growls.

 

“Enough!” my father shouts once more. The room falls silent. “Did none of you learn  _ anything _ from this morning?”

 

The air is thick with shame, and I somehow know that if I turn now, I will find Seam and Merchant divided in this room. As though nothing has changed. It probably hasn’t.

 

“Look at them!” my father orders. “Do you know what I see?”

 

“They’re holding hands?” someone asks in a confused tone. Oddly enough, the question is met with nervous laughter from different corners of the room. Prim cracks a small, reluctant smile that she quickly stifles. Tired of being excluded from this conversation, I turn my head to face the wider room.

 

“Ah, there she is,” Haymitch says as he lifts a glass to me, a smirk on his face as he lounges in a chair in the corner. “Welcome back, Sweetheart. You put on quite the show today.”

 

I use the charged silence to examine each person in the room. Mrs. Anodune, seated in a chair and gripping a mug of tea, her hair and dress a total wreck. Eyes red and confused. Lost. My father watching me, determined and still caught in fury. His hands holding apart two heaving chests topped with two glaring faces. Gale. And Peeta’s brother. The middle one, I think. In the corner, the oldest Mellark brother stands, accepting a small bag of ice from Maysilee Donner to place on his swollen lower lip.

 

The strangest attendant of all, though, is Purnia. Wearing the pants but not the jacket to her Peacekeeper uniform. I’ve never seen the coarse red shirts they apparently wear underneath before now.

 

“Will someone please explain to me what’s going on? Before you drug me again,” I croak out the words.

 

My father drops his hands. Gale steps back. Peeta’s brother...Ryen, I think...scrubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor. Purnia shifts nervously on her feet.

 

“Well,” my father says, clearly scrambling for words.

 

“You started a riot,” Haymitch says and stands. My father glares at him. “She needs to know, Sage. All of it.”

 

With a resolute nod, my father turns to me and starts speaking. The others fill in the holes where he cannot.

 

“When you climbed up on the stage, something happened in the crowd. The people, they tore down the screens, smashed the cameras, and overran the stage. There’s a few people guarding the jail right now. It’s full of Peacekeepers. Purnia here has been manning the radios and other communications with the Capitol to help us figure out what their next move is, but for now, we have control of the District.”

 

“Who’s  _ we _ ?” Ryen snarls quietly and Gale steps towards him again, but a wave of my father’s hand halts him.

 

“Just shut the fuck up, Ryen,” the oldest Mellark brother says in exasperation.

 

The mention of Peacekeepers has me thinking of someone else, though.

 

“And Darius?” I ask, and watch as Purnia’s eyes grow sad and she shakes her head. I’m not even allowed time to absorb the news before she starts talking, maybe to cover up her grief at losing her friend.

 

“After the protests last night, Thread was convinced one of us was helping. A traitor. He said that was the only explanation for the people almost taking control of the armory. The truth is, it wasn’t an attack we were expecting. He didn’t think there was enough organization to the protests to pull it off. So after the square was cleared out last night, he started to call in the Peacekeepers who’ve been here the longest and question us one by one. He didn’t have much to work with since they’ve been slowly transferring us to different Districts, but Darius was one of the first pulled in and Thread didn’t like one of his answers.

 

“So he tortured Darius until he gave up a name and…”

 

“But why Peeta’s?” the oldest brother asks calmly, gently placing a hand on Purnia’s arm. She shakes her head.

 

“Because Darius saw us together the morning after that first round of protests,” I say. Ryen makes noise of disbelief, and Haymitch watches me with renewed interest. I can’t look at Gale. “He’d been injured and I was trying to get him home.”

 

“Oh, well good to know I took the butt of a rifle to the lip for no reason,” the oldest brother says, but he’s inexplicably smiling about it.

 

“Graham,” the middle brother warns with an edge of fury to his voice.

 

“Priscilla,” my father says gently, heading off any more brotherly squabbles. “I believe this is where we need you to fill in the story.”

 

Mrs. Anodune nods, her hands trembling as she looks around the room.

 

“Ryen and a few others brought Peeta to my husband and I after things had calmed a little. I’ve never seen him so furious, though. He would barely touch Peeta, and I couldn’t figure out why until Primrose came looking for him. He thought all the times Peeta stopped by to speak with her meant he was courting her,” she stops talking to drink her tea and her entire body shudders.

 

“I’m still confused,” Maysilee says. “Maybe start from the beginning.”

 

With a bitter laugh, Mrs. Anodune -- Priscilla, my father had called her, as though he knows her -- looks at my father with tears in her eyes.

 

“He never forgave Lily. And he carried that with him for years. The bitterness. But he also never stopped caring about her in a twisted way. In Primrose, he saw a chance to bring her home. To save Lily’s daughter since he couldn’t save his sister and--”

 

She bursts into sobs, and the rest of us watch, stunned, as my father lifts her from the chair and holds her in an embrace. Softly soothes her.

 

“I’m so sorry, Sage,” she mumbles into his shoulder. Her words broken by sobs and hiccoughs. “I should’ve been there for her! I never even got to say good-bye! But oh, how she loved you! I didn’t have to speak with her to know it. She was like a light around you! And--”

 

Prim has moved around the counter to stand on my side, grips my hand as I look up at her and we share matching looks of confusion. Suddenly, Maysilee Donner has her arms around both Priscilla and my father, tears streaming down her face as well. The rest of us stand there awkwardly as the scene of grieving unfolds before us.

 

Then it occurs to me. My mother must have had friends in Town before she moved to the Seam. Friends who would have turned their backs on her. Perhaps unwillingly. Perhaps one of them was Priscilla Anodune. Perhaps another was Maysilee Donner.

 

When Priscilla has regained control of her voice, she keeps talking. About how the apprenticeship the apothecary offered was his way of getting Prim free of the Seam. I can feel Gale’s eyes on me, no doubt smug about the fact that he was right. I listen as Priscilla talks about how Prim’s determination to see Peeta healed after the initial rounds of protests, their frequent meetings and moments of conversation and the way they seemed to be keeping secrets led Mr. Anodune to hope that a romance was blooming between the two. A proper Merchant pairing. The one my mother should have made. 

 

“But after what happened this morning, when he realized that Peeta’s heart lies with Katniss…”

 

“That’s why he barely bothered to bandage our brother?” Graham asks, incredulous. Priscilla nods.

 

“And why I had you help me bring him here. To Primrose. I knew she would take care of him properly,” Priscilla says and then she grabs a shawl from where it’s draped over her chair, swinging her arms wide to place it over her shoulders. “I should get back. Before he realizes where I’ve gone.”

 

“Priscilla, stay,” my father urges, waving towards the people who remain in the front section of the shop. “We could use your help.”

 

“Thank you, Sage,” she says with a wan smile. “I would if I thought it wouldn’t make things worse.”

 

Then she walks over to where I lay with Prim standing beside me. Prim squeezes my hand roughly as Mrs. Anodune leans over me, brushing back a few strands of my hair.

 

“And thank you, Katniss. I wish I possessed just a fraction of your bravery and love. Your mother had that, too.” Her eyes flicker over to where my hand is still joined with Peeta’s and then she smiles at me, the expression watery but pure. “Heal quickly, dear girl.”

 

She kisses my forehead and then she’s gone, leaving behind a strange and loaded silence.

 

“It won’t be that easy,” Gale says from the doorway, finally breaking the silence. For the first time since our eyes met in the square, I take a good look at him. He has a few scratches on his face and his sleeve is torn, a bloody bandage wrapped around his upper arm. But otherwise, he looks fine. A wave of guilt sweeps over me that I can’t explain. He won’t even look at me, my best friend. Perhaps my guilt stems from the fact that people believed we would end up together. At least until the moment when I flung myself between Peeta and Thread. Gale himself must have believed it. And maybe I did, too.

 

“They’ll retaliate,” Gale says and the room turns tense. “Especially if the whole thing, or even a fraction of it was televised. They can’t afford not to.”

 

“Probably,” Haymitch says and takes a deep drink.

 

“There are about twenty people watching at the train station,” Purnia says. “They’ll raise the alarm if anyone enters the District.”

 

“And we should let these two rest so that they can run when the time comes,” Prim says, and begins to shoo people from the kitchen. As she enters the front of the store, she catches the attention of Peeta’s brothers. “I could use a few extra pairs of steady hands.”

 

Graham doesn’t hesitate to follow her. Ryen, however, clenches his jaw and looks over at me for a minute. I keep my face impassive, expressionless. Finally, he heaves a sigh and follows my sister to the main section of the shop.

 

Everyone departs quickly, only Gale and my father linger, both of them giving me strange, wistful looks before they finally turn and leave the room. When we’re alone, I turn back to Peeta. Disentangling my hand from his, I twirl a lock of his hair around my fingers and let the worry flood through me. The fear that I’ve been keeping at bay since I woke in here. Just his presence beside me, although he feels a million miles away, is comforting.

 

I watch and wait as his features begin to tick, the medicine wearing off and the pain working in tandem to pull him back to the world of the living. He groans and his features contort. When he opens his eyes, they’re hazed over with oblivion and agony.

 

“Katniss,” he murmurs, slurring the sound, his cheek squished into the counter and the last dregs of sleep syrup hindering his speech.

 

“Hey,” I whisper.

 

“This is not how I imagined the first time you’d see me without my shirt on,” Peeta says, shifting his body to test his limbs and wincing with pain. I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of my chest. 

 

Then his face sobers as his eyes rake over my form. I shift uncomfortably, and finally notice the sheet wrapped partially around my torso. Prim somehow found a way to preserve my modesty. I send a silent thank you to her. But it’s the ice and bandages on my back that are holding Peeta’s attention right now.

 

“Well, we’re safe now. Prim’s taking good care of us.”

 

“About that...Don’t ever do something like that again,” he says when his eyes finally return to mine.

 

“Oh and I suppose you wouldn’t have done the same thing for me?”

 

“That’s not the point,” he protests, but I can see in his eyes, he already knows he’s lost this argument.

 

“What was I supposed to do, stand back and watch you get torn to shreds? Thread was trying to make an example of you. He would’ve killed you.”

 

“Of course he was. That doesn’t mean I wanted you caught in this mess, too,” Peeta says, but there’s no bite to his words, and we’re squeezing one another’s hands so hard at this point I don’t know how either one of us has any circulation left.

 

“I was already caught up in this mess. Besides, it got the entire District working together for a few minutes, at least,” I say and then something else occurs to me. “You’re angry with me for even being at that protest.”

 

His shoulders deflate and he shakes his head as best he can given our prone position.

 

“No. I was worried and scared, but not angry. You had as much reason as anyone else to be there.”

 

I don’t know how to respond to this after the way my father and Gale have treated me in the past few months. I blink and stare at our hands. Resting inches apart on the table now.

 

“Thread accused you of helping people evade arrest. Was he talking about me? Were there others you helped, too? Just how involved were you, anyways?” I ask, and Peeta sighs in resignation.

 

“It wasn’t just you. They arrested me last night, threw me in a cell with a bunch of the others, but then this morning they seemed intent on keeping me separate. I’m guessing Darius told them something.”

 

“He was tortured,” I say, feeling the need to defend my friend. Peeta winces and there’s genuine hurt in his eyes.

 

“That’s… I…” he can’t seem to find the right thing to say. “Is he okay?”

 

My silence and slight shake of my head are all the answer he needs. He squeezes his eyes shut and shifts restlessly on the counter.

 

“I’ll call Prim,” I say. “She’ll give you something to help with the pain.”

 

“Where are we?” he asks after I call her name and she shouts back that she’ll be right in. I tell him, and I can see the confusion in his eyes.

 

“The apothecary thought you were courting Prim,” I say by way of horrible explanation. “Not me.”

 

“That’s what upset him?” Peeta says and smiles, a reaction I don’t understand. “Not the inciting a riot charge?”

 

“Speaking of which,” I say as he curls his arm up to take my hand, which I’ve rested on his cheek at some point. I don’t remember doing that. “Is there truth to that charge?”

 

“How are you not in excruciating pain right now?” he asks instead. It’s a diversionary tactic, and I don’t appreciate it.

 

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say.

 

“Katniss, I’m tired and--”

 

“Don’t you keep things from me, too!” I hiss at him. He stares at me a moment and I can see his surprise.

 

“I was trying to convince more Merchants to stand with us.”

 

“That’s insane,” I say. But in the back of my mind, I’m mulling over the letters Peeta wrote me, the effortless way he can weave words together or capture images in his drawings, and how he managed to make me  _ feel _ . If anyone could sway the tide of distrust with the turn of a simple sentence, it would be him.

 

“Not as insane as you’d think,” he murmurs. “Look at what happened today.”

 

“They could’ve turned you in.”

 

“Yes, and I knew that risk when I started. Just like you knew the risks when you marched into that square last night.”

 

He squeezes my hand again and I search for another accusation to hurl at him. But the truth is, I can’t. We’ve both been reckless. So I ask him the last thing I need to know.

 

“Have you been recruiting Merchants this whole time?”

 

“Recruiting?” he asks with a twist of his lips. “Interesting word choice. I thought of it as...changing their minds. But no. I didn’t start that until after the night you and your father helped me. What you two did...it made me think there was more I could be doing than just standing in line behind a mask and shouting.”

 

“Oh,” is all I can manage. Mainly because I don’t know what else to say, but also because Prim has just returned.

 

“How are you feeling, Peeta?” she asks, all business.

 

“Like someone tried to remove the skin from my back,” he tells her and she chuckles.

 

“I’ll give you some morphling to dull the pain, okay? Not enough to knock you out, though. Dad and the others are getting antsy, thinking of heading for the woods with everyone just to be safe.”

 

“Where’s my family?” he asks as Prim inserts a needle in his back and Peeta has to bite back a soft sound of pain.

 

“Your brothers are both here,” she says and checks my bandages. “I’ll send them back to see you, but I haven’t seen your parents.”

 

Peeta nods as Prim heads towards the door. A few moments later, his brothers return. I think of removing my hand from Peeta’s, so as to not upset his brothers any more than they already are, but Peeta tightens his hold on me.

 

“Don’t let go of me,” he pleads quietly.

 

“Okay,” I tell him.

 

His brothers make a lot of noise as they enter and yank chairs into place by Peeta’s head. The oldest one sticks his pinky in his mouth then swirls it in Peeta’s ear, making Peeta squirm and yelp while the middle brother guffaws. For some reason, this dumb action makes Peeta’s entire body relax. I can see the tension leaving his shoulders.

 

“Stop looking so put out, you got off easy,” Graham says as he plunks himself down in a chair and looks Peeta dead on. “Ma would’ve given you a worse punishment.”

 

“Nice lip you got there. Improves your looks a lot,” Peeta says and Graham tilts his head but there’s still a smile in his eyes.

 

“I won’t be thanking you for it,” Graham says. “Vi wouldn’t even kiss it better afterwards.” I must look a little confused because Ryen taps the counter in front of my face to get my attention.

 

“Peacekeeper shoved the butt of his rifle in Graham’s face when he called that twat, Thread, a liar. And Violet’s his prissy girlfriend,” he explains. So Graham was the one protesting the charges against Peeta. Graham reaches over and shoves Ryen, but before a fight can break out, Peeta interrupts the scuffle.

 

“What about Dad? And Ma? Where are they?”

 

“Holed up at home. He’s probably drinking.”

 

“And she’s probably complaining,” Ryen adds to Graham’s assessment. They talk for a few more minutes about what happened after Thread started lashing the two of us together. I can tell they aren’t sure what to think. They’ve never seen anything like this happen in District Twelve before. I have to wonder if anyone in all of Panem has ever seen it before. 

 

“I didn’t mean to get you involved,” Peeta whispers when the conversation lags. Graham’s eyes flick over towards me for a moment before he folds his arms on the counter and gets right in Peeta’s face.

 

“Hey. I figured something like this was gonna happen eventually. Maybe not in such a spectacular fashion, but...your eyes have always been focused away from town. And you’ve never been one to go down without a fight. Ryen’s got the bent nose to prove it.”

 

“Shithead,” Ryen mutters and the other two grin.

 

Prim walks in then, with my father close behind, to shoo the brothers out so she can check our dressings. Graham nods and says something to my father that startles him. I can see it in his eyes, but as the brothers leave, my father actually smiles. Then he looks at Peeta and his face hardens.

 

“Mr. Everdeen--”

 

“Save it,” my father says. “Purnia’s picked up some chatter on the radio waves. A lot of chaos. It sounds like several of the other Districts are in full revolt. Peacekeepers are all screaming at the Capitol for backup. She’s trying to convince them that we’re fine and everything's under control, but they’re not buying it. They want to talk to Thread for confirmation. For now, we’re evacuating into the woods. We’ve got people building stretchers to carry the two of you and the more severely injured folks. We don’t have much time, though.”

 

“Okay. I think if we’re careful, we can move them,” Prim says when she’s done. She grabs a couple of plain white canvas sacks from a drawer and starts packing things. Medicines, extra bandages, and the like. Maysilee brings in two shirts.

 

“Here,” she offers. “The bigger one’s from Haymitch. Nothing I have would fit Peeta and that’s the cleanest thing Haymitch could come up with.”

 

“Prim, how can we help?” I ask. She purses her lips and shakes her head.

 

“I can’t give you any morphling in case you need to run on your own. It’s going to hurt as the rest of it wears off,” she mutters.

 

“We’ll be fine,” Peeta says and squeezes my hand. Prim and Maysilee help us both upright and with donning the shirts.

 

While they’re busy, I turn to him and take his hand in mine. “Stay by my side this time?”

 

“Always,” he answers, leaning towards me a little before he seems to think better of it. I make the choice easy for him and close the distance. Just for a moment, the rest of the lying world disappears. But it can’t last.

 

A few minutes later, Prim ushers four people into the back room, carrying stretchers. Under her succinct directions, Gale and Graham lift me onto one while my father and Ryen manage to get Peeta on the other. He releases a small yelp of pain and I crane my neck as I’m carried from the building. I can’t find him as we’re swallowed in the crowd, though.

 

Furious activity rages in the square. I watch a group of people climb over the remains of the scaffolding that held the giant screens. They hold their arms up and urge a family to pass over small children. Others evacuate their homes carrying bundles of goods. I see a can of soup clatter to the ground and roll across the cobblestones. Someone yells at the apothecary to open his door and he yells back that he’s staying put and will have no part of a rebellion.

 

“At least send out your patients!” The Merchant man begs, but Mr. Anodune refuses. Someone breaks a window and then a gunshot rings out. Gale suggests we move faster and Graham agrees. I bite my lip as the sudden bouncing movement jostles my injured back.

 

I expect panic and terror, frantic shoving and trampling as the people jostle to be first out of the district. But although the movements are swift, I see more examples of people helping their neighbors than hurting. A man from the Seam helps a Merchant woman back to her feet and carries the heavy bundle she’d been toting as they link arms. A young Merchant boy apologizes for bouncing into a girl from the Seam. They stare at one another uncertainly and then continue on their way.

 

I still see examples of the hatred we’ve marinated in for so long. A careless elbow accompanies a slur. A crying child left in the street as someone steps over her.

 

“Gale,” I protest as we streak past her.

 

“I’ll go back for her,” he tells me, but I know he’s lying.

 

“I can walk,” I insist. We’re close to the fence anyways. Before I can struggle my way off the moving stretcher, a strange whistling pierces the air, a sound I’ve never heard before. “What’s that?”

 

“Air raid siren!” Graham yells and Prim swoops in to pick up the child and carry her. “Purnia’s warning us! RUN!”

 

Except there’s nowhere to go. The fence bars our way. A man grabs a wire to lift it and sparks fly. He’s thrown back through the air and lands, smoking, on top of several people.

 

“We’ve got to kill the power and pull it down!” Someone yells. 

 

The boys place me on the ground and I struggle to sit, my back screaming in agony, unconsciousness sparkling along the edges of my vision as I grit my teeth. Prim runs by me to the electrocuted man as the crowd thickens and bunches near the fence, those closest pushing back as panic sets in. We’re caught between electrocution and incineration. There’s smashing and grunting and then--

 

“Got it!” Gale shouts just before the first explosion hits. A young man climbs the nearest fence post and attaches a rope. He jumps back down and several people grab the rope, pulling until the post topples. The crowd floods across as he climbs the next post.

 

“We’ve got to widen the opening!”

 

More explosions rock the earth as flames climb higher from the square. They inch closer to the mines, to the Seam. The panic of the crowd coils tight then snaps as the second post comes down and more people clamber into the woods.

 

Someone rams into my back and I fall over, yelping in pain. A body covers mine, arms wrapping around me and soft grunts in my ear as we’re kicked and stepped over in their haste to flee. When there’s a brief respite, whoever it is moves to stand and is immediately shoved back on top of me. I wail in pain as fire lances across my back and so does he. I know those cries.

 

“Peeta,” I sob and his lips brush over my ear.

 

“Come on!” My father shouts and we’re hauled to our feet. My arm is dragged around my father and we limp towards the woods. I manage to look back once, and see Ryen helping Peeta to his feet. His face is contorted in pain and blood has seeped through his bandages, staining his shirt. It’s my last glimpse of him before a bomb lands close enough to knock my father and I to the ground with the shockwaves. My body rolls and the twigs and foliage scrape across my wounds. Heat from the blast steals my breath. I black out with the pain, my last sensation that of a hand on my wrist and my father yelling my name.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

  
  


They televised the destruction of District Twelve live, thinking it would subdue the rest of the Districts into submission. Sweeping aerial vistas of the fiery carnage of my home. If anything, the assault on so many lives only fueled the fires of revolt and within days, the Capitol, or at least the governing body, had been overthrown.

 

The first time I saw it, I just sat there. Staring and numb. It looked so different from the air. The smooth course of the hovercraft that captured the footage made it seem almost beautiful. Mesmerizing. It was no surprise that the rebels who found us in the woods three days after the bombing wouldn’t stop watching it, their eyes glazed over.

 

With the annihilation of Twelve, the Capitol created a refugee problem. Out of a population of nine thousand, six thousand made it into the woods. After a lot of arguing over safety and resources, District Three agreed to take a thousand, but only from the Merchant quarter. After their own protests turned violent, District Eight was more than willing to take two thousand from the Seam, citing the need for laborers to replace those lost in the protests. 

 

My family and I found ourselves taken to District Seven, where casualties rose so high during the revolts that all Prim had to say was “I’m a healer” and we all found ourselves whisked across the country.

 

As for President Snow...the debates range far and wide. By the time a group of rebels, descendants from the long destroyed District Thirteen, penetrated his bunker, his wartime escape, they claimed he was already dead. The reported manner of his death varied from one day to the next. Shot himself in the mouth. Shot in the back by one of his own Mayors. Killed in a bombing used to soften the bunker as a target. Choked on his own blood after his granddaughter poisoned him. There were even rumors that the soldiers from Thirteen found him alive and beat him to death.

 

It doesn’t matter to me. All that matters to me is that Snow is dead.

 

They still play the footage of the Destruction of District Twelve, although the airwaves are unreliable until enough repairs can be made. Sometimes the signals can’t get through. They play it right before a montage of celebration which consists of people hugging in town squares as gallows and whipping posts are pulled down. Which is what I’m stuck watching now.

 

I turn away from the dancing flames that reach out to me in my nightmares almost every night and finish scrubbing my breakfast dishes clean before placing them in the rack to dry. Back in the room I share with Prim, I dress for work, careful of the bandages covering my nearly healed back. Her hands stop me for a moment and she checks them before lowering the shirt for me.

 

When I face her, she gives me a watery smile before taking my hand in hers and walking with me out of our new house. It used to belong to another family. After we moved in, we found trinkets and things stashed in crevices and corners. I found an orange silk hair ribbon tied around a dried bouquet of flowers. The tiny thing had me in tears as I suddenly thought of the stack of letters and drawings hidden beneath the floorboards in Twelve, no doubt burned away during the firebombing.

 

I don’t know where Peeta is. No one does.

 

If he survived the bombing, chances are he and his brothers were taken to District Three with most of the other surviving Merchants. Then again, he could be dead. Three days with all of us scattered in the woods was not enough time to get an accurate accounting of souls before they started dividing up the lost population of Twelve.

 

So I work. It’s not been easy adopting a profession I despise. The destruction of trees, although the foreman on the crew I work with insists that we plant new trees to replace the ones we cut down. When I begged to be moved to a crew who plants the trees and cares for them, my request was denied. They didn’t give me a reason.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Months pass as the Districts rebuild. An entire country nearly destroyed in days. But I guess destroying things is easier that building them. 

 

Eventually, we hold free elections, sending representatives actually elected by the people -- all of the people -- to argue our wishes in the Capitol. We even elect a new president. A stern woman from District Eight who speaks plainly but honestly, at least on the surface. I don’t know if Panem will be any better under President Paylor than it was under President Snow, but Prim and my father are both hopeful. I become more so, after her first act as president is to issue a formal apology to the labor classes of Panem and one to District Twelve. Even more so when her efforts focus on rebuilding and unity. Under her guidance, District borders open to those in need.

 

Gale, who initially came to District Seven with us, was eventually asked to move to District 3 after word of his ability to fix and improve the mechanical equipment of District Seven spreads. Turns out, his work on the mining equipment of Twelve was only a small taste of his abilities. Once in District Three, he sent a letter to me, telling me that he plans on staying there, charmed into learning engineering and technology under a genius he calls Beetee. 

 

Before he left Seven, he embraced me. Even kissed me again. It felt distant. Perfunctory. It made me wonder what happened to the boy and the girl that we used to be. Everyone else seemed to be moving forward, and yet we could not.

 

In his letter, he asks me to join him, although he couples it with the reassurance that he doesn’t think I will. That he lost me a long time ago and taunts me with his fear that “ _ you’ll never be able to let him go _ .” I search for the anger I may have once felt at his assumption that Gale ever had me to begin with. That what I had with Peeta, brief though it may have been, should be easily forgotten or cast aside. 

 

The anger’s not there, though. All I can dredge up is relief. And I can’t afford to get lost in the ghosts of the past, no matter how briefly. My father taught me that.

 

Prim blossoms under the tutelage of the Capitol doctors who venture into the Districts. When District Seven’s population has recovered enough to be able to survive without her, she’s asked to go to the Capitol to continue her education. My father goes with her. But I cannot. At least not permanently.

 

I travel with them initially to the city, with the intent to start a new life with them there. While it is grander than I could have ever imagined, it’s not my woods. Not my mountains. I itch for a different landscape and a place that I feel is mine. I don’t fit in these shining, paved streets and rows of towering buildings with sparkling, clean glass windows. So I kiss my family good-bye with promises to write often so they know my whereabouts.

 

Instead of settling, I wander from one District to the next as they relax their policies on refugees, remaining long enough to pass on a few of my more valuable skills to others, making them less dependent on the fledgling government and more aware of the environment surrounding their homes. Outside of their fences. Sometimes, I help them rebuild. A damaged roof in District 6. A burned out factory in District 8. Even a dam to provide electricity in District 5. It’s hard work but it keeps my mind away from things that might have been. Eventually, District Seven draws me back in. It’s the trees.

 

Through it all, I search for those small acts of kindness that make all the difference in our world. And I long for home, but delay returning. At first, I have the excuse that the train tracks leading to Twelve were destroyed during the bombing. Of course, I could make the journey on foot, but each time I think of it, I find something new to repair in whatever District I am in. Eventually, though, the tracks are fixed, and I begin to cross paths with people returning to Twelve.

 

I find myself at the station one day, watching several people load District 7 lumber bound for 12 onto the flat cargo cars. Material to rebuild. People glance at me, sometimes twice when they recognize my face. It’s something else I’ve had to get used to, even here in Seven where I lived for several months. 

 

My toes curl in my boots and I nervously bounce the small bag containing my meager belongings. Feathers, metals to melt, and my mold for making arrowheads. A seashell from District 4, a pinecone from 7, a granite rock polished on one side and rough on the other from 2, a length of electrical cable tied in a bow from 5. A few changes of clothes. A picture of Prim, my father, and me. The scars on my back prickle with sweat and fear.

 

“Miss,” one of the workers catches my attention. “Train leaves in an hour. Did you want a ride?”

 

She hitches her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the train. This isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation. I take a step back and then, I look up. Out over the towering pines of District 7. The sky glows orange and fuchsia in a magnificent sunset. I wonder what the sunset looks like over District 12 today.

 

I can feel my eyes filling with tears, but I do not want this woman to see me cry. So I shake my head and walk away from the train. I pause in the town square before I re-enter the boarding house where I now live, until I can afford one of the single person dwellings being built on the edges of the lumber yards. Here, I scan the notices on the massive boards once used to announce new restrictions and punishments, now covered in advertisements searching for loved ones displaced by the rebellion. I spot his face right where I left it months ago, half hidden behind the gap-toothed smile of a boy with dark hair, missing from District Eight. I’ve left identical notices in each district that I visited, although the contact information is long since out of date. The paper is faded and yellowed, the black and white Capitol stock photo obtained from the local records office does nothing to indicate how blue his eyes are.

 

As I stand there, a man from the train station approaches with a stack and shifts a few of the notices to add more to the board. I turn away, planning on sleeping until I have to be at the lumber yards in the morning, and instead finding myself back at the train. Final boarding call is announced and before I can overthink it, I leap across the gap and collapse, panting, into a seat just as my tears begin to fall. 

 

It’s a train built more for cargo than people, so the one passenger car is worn, the seat cushions flat and uncomfortable. I manage a few hours of sleep though, and wake up just as the sun is coming up over Twelve.

 

As the train slows to pull into the station, I can’t help but obsess over what I might possibly find. My nightmares return to haunt me. A gravestone with Peeta’s name. A skeleton with the bones picked clean. Miles of rotting corpses. Nothing. Years of emptiness and questions. The certainty that I shouldn’t have left him at that fence but somehow dragged him into the woods with my father and me, so I could make sure no one hurt him under my watch.

 

Around me, the dozen or so other passengers gather their meager belongings and disembark. I stare out the window, out towards the patch of woods where Peeta and I once met. Where we shared a kiss. It’s once more teeming with life. The grass grows thick and tall, dotted with a handful of wildflowers. A cluster of new homes in the process of being built dot the flat open stretch between the station and the woods.

 

I blink, already surprised by the differences in my home and dreading facing what lies on the other side of the train. I need to face it, though, so I make myself stand and sling my bag up over my shoulder before walking out onto the platform.

 

Several people bustle about, unloading goods, checking manifestos, signing for their shipments. I stand there, fingering the straps of my bag and uncertain where to go. I have no home here. Not anymore. Nowhere to sleep tonight, and I have no idea who has returned. Who would I seek shelter from? I’ve about decided this was a bad idea and half turn to reboard the train when I spot him.

 

Blond waves, stocky build. He hefts a large sack, labeled  _ Concrete _ over his shoulder, blocking his face from my view. I watch as he turns slowly, takes a few uneven steps, and adds the sack to a pile already on some kind of hand cart.

 

“That’s it for this week,” a train worker says as he deposits a bag of concrete on the cart.

 

“Alright, Jacob. Where’re you headed next?” the blond man asks. I dare not name him yet, still certain that I’m dreaming, hallucinating this scene. Even though his voice is the one in my dreams.

 

“Ten, then Six, and Three, if I’m not mistaken. Why?”

 

The blond man grabs a handful of envelopes from his back pocket and shuffles through them.

 

“Could you take these for their notice boards? Uh, let’s see. One to Six and one to Three. I already sent one to Ten. I’m looking for someone and if the folks there could maybe, I dunno, help out, I’d appreciate it.”

 

“Sure thing,” Jacob answers and accepts two letters as Peeta shoves the rest back in his pocket.

 

“Her name is Katniss Everdeen and she’s originally from here, but--”

 

I drop my bag, the loud thud on the platform drawing the attention of both men. Peeta’s eyes widen at the sight of me, and I no longer care how he’s still alive or why he never found me in the woods after the bombing, only that he’s here now, looking healthy and handsome, and still sending letters, trying to reach me.

 

My feet move. I run full tilt at him. His smile breaks over his face, still exactly as I remember it. His lips are just forming my name when I crash into him and wrap my limbs around him. Our bodies and mouths collide, sending Peeta backwards to sit on the stack of concrete mix.

 

Relief floods my every pore as his hands grip the back of my jacket and I inhale his sigh. Just to be sure he’s real, I bury my hands in his hair and tug while we kiss. I feel it again, the unbearable heat dancing with a hunger for more. More kisses. More hope. More of Peeta. Something long dead inside of me bursts into bloom. I’m not sure how long we stay like that, it feels like always. My skin flushed and tingling, yet I’m not ready to let go when someone behind me clears his throat.

 

“So, uh...you still need me to deliver these notices?”

 

Peeta moves one hand to take back the letters and tosses them over his shoulder, never once lifting his lips from mine.

 

“Glad I could help,” the man says, his voice amused, but I don’t care what that man thinks.

 

Eventually, Peeta ends the kiss, holds me just far enough away to stare into my eyes.

 

“Are you really here?” he whispers. I nod as tears start to cloud my vision. I swipe at my eyes until Peeta stops me and I notice how his eyes glisten with unshed tears, too. “You came home.”

 

And for the first time, I return the promise he once made to me.

 

I tell him, “Always.”

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

I squirm a little and hiss at the cool sensation on my back. Peeta apologizes but I smile over my shoulder at him and try to sit still so he can finish. Art supplies are often difficult to come by these days, so he often improvises, making paints from natural elements and using whatever he can as a canvas. Today, it’s me.

 

I take a deep breath and blow it back out as my hands tighten on the bed sheet I’m using to cover my front. The fire in the grate warms me, it’s light dancing behind my eyelids when I close them and focus on breathing, rather than following the motions of the brush over my scars, and Iet my mind wander through memories.

 

The mines burned for months after the bombing. Eventually, crews brought in heavy machinery to seal off the openings and break ground for a new factory where I now work, making medicines. Peeta and Ryen rebuilt the bakery and also helped rebuild the rest of the town. They never made it as deep into the woods as the rest of us did because the bomb that threw my father and I to the ground, felled half the fence. One of the heavy electrical boxes landed on Peeta’s leg, trapping him there. When the rebels found them, Peeta was on death’s doorstep and Ryen was half out of his mind with dehydration. The rebels rushed them to their own base camp and field hospital, since most of the rest of us had already been moved to other districts and Peeta needed immediate medical help. They had to amputate his leg, though. When I came home, he was still getting used to his new prosthetic.

 

After we’d managed to stop kissing, the day I returned to Twelve, he took me to the local housing center so I could find a place to live. When I asked why I couldn’t just stay with him, he’d blushed while the clerk coughed and pretended to be busy with paperwork while Peeta explained about his leg and how he’d understand if I felt uncomfortable around him now.

 

His uncertainty caused a brief rift between us, but when I showed up on his doorstep the first Sunday I was back in Twelve to remind him that we had a date, he’d smiled widely and made no secret afterwards that he was courting me, a girl from the Seam. We returned to the meadow for our second date, and over the next few years, the seeds that were planted on a night of fire and uncertainty grew into something stronger.

 

Sometimes, we still get strange looks. Not everyone has gotten used to the idea of a Merchant boy and a Seam girl together. Most of the newly married couples of Twelve still share the same coloring, although there are a few like us. Having a father and three siblings who stand behind us helps, a reminder that even those who once held prejudices can be swayed, and that one person alone changes little. It takes all of us. 

 

I flinch as his brush tickles over my side and he kisses my ear. “Almost done,” he whispers.

 

“Think you’ll be ready then?” I ask impatiently. He pauses in his painting on my back to wrap an arm around me, pulling my hips back until I can feel his hard length pressed against my backside. I bite my lip and stop protesting as he finishes painting, grabbing the last bit of toasted bread from the hearth in front of me. I tear off a bite and chew slowly while he works, turn enough to offer him the last morsel. He takes it in his teeth, his tongue flicking over my fingers and his blue eyes dark as he eats. After he swallows, he shifts his body and blows cool air all over my painted back, to help dry his creation.

 

“There,” he murmurs. “All done. Would you like to see?”

 

I nod and hold onto the sheet as he helps me to my feet and leads me across the bedroom to the mirror in the corner. The sheet is pointless now. I’ve no reason to cover myself in front of him. We’ve toasted and made use of the fireplace for warmth as we made love for the first time as husband and wife on this cool spring night. He started painting when I teased him I wasn’t ready for sleep yet and he reminded me that he’d need time to recover.

 

He stands in front of me, holding one of my hands while I examine the black, grey, and white paint on my back. He turned my scars into wings.

 

“They’re beautiful,” I whisper.

 

“Just like you,” Peeta murmurs and starts to pull the sheet from my grasp. 

 

It is slow work mending the chasms caused by hatred. Perhaps it will never fully mend. There may always be those people who incorrectly judge their neighbor as their enemy. But at least for now, we have a common goal, something to make us forgive. Put aside our differences and find a better way to change things. And as the fire once more provides warmth while I gaze down at Peeta, my hand splayed over the scar on his belly that brought us together, I feel hope blossoming in my chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to those of you who've expressed interest in this story during the year it went without an update. I'm aware that the conclusion might feel rushed in some ways, and for that I do apologize. Short of writing several more 20k chapters, I felt that this was the best way to bring this story to a close. Given the political climate in my home country the past year, please understand that continuing this story took a great deal of emotional effort as well as stress over appropriately handling the subject. I hope that I have have not offended, although I would like to hear if I have and how so that I might be better equipped to portray situations such as these in the future. 
> 
> To those of you just discovering this story, I welcome your comments as well.
> 
> My gratitude to peetabreadgirl and titaniasfics/ct522 for their phenomenal help in editing and bringing this story to a close.
> 
> And now, for my next trick...finishing another long neglected fic. I will be shifting my focus to finishing a piece for the August 2017 More Stories to Save Lives and also back to either Everything You Are or One Last Hope, depending on which way the muse points me. My love to you all! --KDNFB


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